


Will You Search Through The Lonely Earth For Me?

by Camelittle, Merlocked18



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Adopted Arthur, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Arthurian, Boys In Love, Cursed Jewellery, Detectorists - Freeform, Dragons, Dyslexia, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kidnapping, M/M, Mind Control, Museums, Orphaned Merlin, Science, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-10 03:05:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 54,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15940508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/pseuds/Merlocked18
Summary: A modern-day retelling of the Arthurian legend of the sword in the stone.A-level student Arthur Wildforest wouldn't mind being dyslexic if people didn't keep pushing him into writing essays. He dreams of being an artist, but his father, Hector, has other ideas. When Arthur sneaks onto a school art research trip to the local museum, he encounters Merlin— a curator with uncanny abilities. They quickly strike up an unlikely friendship, defying Hector's specific orders to the contrary. One day, while they are bumbling around the Somerset Levels with Merlin’s metal detector, they unearth a powerful artefact that overturns Arthur’s entire world view and catapults them both into the heart of a dangerous power struggle between warring magical factions.





	1. Will you search through the lonely earth for me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlocked18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/gifts).



> The title and chapter titles are taken from the wonderful song “Will You Search Through the Lonely Earth for Me?” by Johnny Flynn, theme tune to the simply divine BBC4 TV show “Detectorists”, written by McKenzie Crook (aka Cedric in Merlin). The song alone fills me with feelings and I CAN’T EVEN WORK OUT WHY. And the series is a quiet, sweet piece of perfection. 
> 
> Talking of talented artists who fill me with FEELINGS, I was lucky enough to be paired with the insanely talented Merlocked18 for this wonderful fest. I bribed her with a pub lunch and despite having half a hamburger thrown at her (in error, I swear!), she nevertheless graciously agreed to work with me! Dearest readers: please go and leave her all the love because she is amazing.
> 
>  
> 
> [Art Masterpost ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15826872)
> 
>  
> 
> I had an initial idea to rework the Arthurian legends in the present day somehow, with Merlin and Arthur encountering each other metal-detecting in the Somerset Levels, and together finding the sword, Excalibur. Destiny! I owe a huge debt of thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Schweet_heart and Archaeologist_d, for helping me in countless ways to tussle with the resulting rambling mess and make something coherent out of it. Any remaining mistakes are all my own.
> 
> Finally, our eternal thanks to the ever-patient mods of this glorious fest. For Camelot!

 

 

# Will you search through the lonely earth for me?

_Accompanied by pages from Arthur Wildforest’s sketchbook_

_***_

***

“Wait!” Arthur Wildforest pauses, rummaging in his rucksack for his phone. “I want a picture!”

But his friends and fellow sixth-formers bundle, heedless, up the shallow steps, swallowed by the gloom of the arched stone doorway, all exuberant chatter, flailing limbs, and clattering footsteps.

Bloody uncultured Philistines. They wouldn’t know art if it bit them on the bum.

“Come on, Arthur, you’re holding us up, and I don’t want to waste any time,” yells his brother, Kay, over one shoulder. “We’ve only got three hours.”

Arthur doesn’t deign to grace this statement with a reply, instead flicking his fingers in a laconic V to express his contempt of brothers in general and Kay in particular. Kay’s not that bad, of course, but it would never do to be polite to one another in public, and the two brothers make a point of moving in separate groups most of the time. After all, it is tough enough having an older brother in the same year, especially one who’s such a _nerd,_ without having people throwing them together all the time. In their earlier years of school they frequently fought over trivial matters, but now they are starting their second year in the sixth form they have thawed towards one another somewhat. It is hard not to—especially when they are both taking Fine Art A level . It’s not a commonly chosen subject at Millfield, which is more renowned for its sporting achievements than for creative subjects.

Besides which, when things have ever got sticky with homophobic school bullies, Kay has always supported Arthur, even though Arthur is the sporty one. Arthur really appreciates Kay's loyalty, although he would never tell him so. But that doesn’t mean that Arthur wants to follow Kay now. He’s enjoying the quiet of the street. The soft tap-tap of footsteps on bare flagstones is soothing, somehow.

“Come on, mate. Let’s get sketching.” Lance, his best mate, thumps him sympathetically on the back and mounts the step, before being swallowed up by the gloomy doorway.

The museum is housed in an exquisite and clearly ancient building, with a rough-hewn facade of warm-gold stone that Arthur’s fingers itch to touch. He rubs one curious fingertip along the facing, breathing in the scent of limestone bathed in sunlight. It smells like age and peace. Faint lines in the rock hint at its internal fabric, laid down by long-vanished ancient waters.

A homeless guy a few metres down the street —gaunt-faced, hair unkempt—looks up and catches Arthur’s eye. Homelessness seems to be becoming more and more common nowadays. This guy is wearing too many clothes, despite the heat. There’s an air of defeat about him as he implores passers-by to spare some change. If Arthur’s Dad were here, he’d probably mutter about the guy needing to spruce himself up and get a job, but Mum has always been kinder, telling him to put himself in other peoples’ shoes. How did the guy come to lose his home? He must have had one, once. What must it feel like to have nowhere to live, no-one looking out for you, no idea where the next meal is coming from? No wonder the poor soul is desolate. If Arthur were in charge of things, no-one would have to go without a roof over their head, no matter what their circumstances.

He digs around in his pocket for his phone, and pulls out some spare change for the homeless guy at the same time, letting it drop into his hat, feeling awkward at the guy's gratitude.

“Hurry up, Wildforest, don’t dawdle.” Their teacher, Miss Khan, beckons from within. “There’ll be time to photograph the stonework later.”

“But the light is perfect now, Miss!” protested Arthur, holding up his phone.

He angles it to frame the textures of the crumbling mortar and the weathered rock, the beading on the narrow windows, and the ornate though worn-looking Tudor Rose carved above the door. Even the weathering of this stone seems perfect, and lends it a timelessness that somehow settles Arthur’s normally restless spirit.

“Now, Wildforest!” There is a hint of steel in Miss Khan’s voice that brooks no argument.

Realising that he’s probably run out of goodwill for now, Arthur sighs and steps a little closer. “Coming, Miss.” He snaps a few more photographs of the Tudor Rose before stumbling into the museum.

The cool darkness contrasts pleasantly with the heat of the street outside. Arthur pulls off his baseball cap and shoves it into his rucksack together with his phone, and pulls out a sketchpad and pencil, zipping the lot up with a loud whoosh.

Once inside, the group splits up, seeking subjects. Ostensibly here to find potential inspiration for one of their A level projects for next year, the majority of the students see this as an opportunity for a bit of an escape from the classroom.

Strangely disquieted by his encounter with the beggar, Arthur does not feel like having company. Instead he shrugs off Lance’s suggestion that they work together on sketching a piece of old timber from a dried out lake village, and roams around the museum, peering inside dusty display cases at arrays of artefacts. Before long, something golden gleams out at him, decorated with ornate gold filigree and tiny red jewels.

It must have belonged to someone both rich and important. Wouldn’t it be amazing, to own something like that: an object imbued with meaning, that instantly proclaimed your status, your relationship to the world?

He squints at the display label, mouthing the words as he attempts to read them. An Anglo-Saxon cheek plate, it says, in big letters, and then it goes on to say a whole lot more that he ignores because it’s in tiny handwriting that swims all over the page. He likes the design, which has intertwined serpent tails on it, and in the context of art, that is what matters. Settling on one end of a long bench, he thumbs his way through his sketchbook to a blank page, and starts to sketch in some spiralling lines with a 2B art pencil.

Drawing curves and spirals is quite relaxing. One day, maybe, he will be gifted something like this. Something that unequivocally declares to the world: this is who I am!

Ideas for his A level art project are swirling through his mind as he shifts his weight on the bench. Engrossed, he doesn’t notice at first that someone is standing over him, gazing curiously at the sheet of paper.

“Nice work,” says a female voice suddenly, making him jump.

“Do you mind?” He scowls up at the girl. “You made me lose my concentration.”

“You’re cute when you frown, posh boy.” Her accent is a soft local burr, and she flutters her lashes at him, giggling when he looks at her, turning her hips this way and that, as if he could be under any illusions about whether she’s flirting or not. She’s wearing a name badge that states she is Sefa; a member of staff, then, although she doesn’t look more than 16.

“I’m gay,” he says flatly, too annoyed to be polite. “You’ve made me smudge my sketch. Go away.”

“Rude! Anyway, how do you know you’re gay?” she says, pouting and ignoring his request. Instead she sits down on the bench next to him. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He turns his attention back to the cheek plate, as if fascinated.

There’s a moment of peace, but she’s still sitting there. Irritated by her presence, Arthur turns over a page and starts on a new sketch.

“My boss’s nephew found that!” she says, conversationally, pointing at the cheek plate. “In a field. With a metal detector. His name’s Merlin. He’s a detectorist. He’s found lots of things. He’s working here too. Proper working, I mean, not just on work experience like me, even though he’s only in Year Thirteen, he gets paid and everything.”

“Then why don’t you go and annoy him, if you like him so much?” says Arthur, although his interest is piqued. Someone his age just stumbled across this thing?

“Silly sausage,” she says shifting her weight on the bench to get closer to him. Arthur shifts away, turning his shoulder to her, but she still doesn’t get the hint. “Of course I can’t talk to him! He’s a weirdo, not to mention completely dumb!”

“Yeah, well, you’re not going to endear yourself to me by calling people names,” says Arthur, who has been called dumb enough times, by people who should know better. It rankles. He draws an angry spiral, pressing so hard that his pencil lead snaps. “Damn!”

“No! You don’t get it!” she protests. “I don’t mean dumb as in stupid, I mean he’s really dumb. He’s got a thing called selective mutism; he doesn’t speak.”

“If he has a thing called selective mutism, then why don’t you just say that he has selective mutism?” snaps Arthur. His irritation is climbing beyond the threshold into proper anger now. “You don’t just call people names because they’re different. Now I have asked you nicely already, please go away and leave me alone. I am trying to concentrate.”

“Well, hark at you!” She pulls a face and stands, biting her lip as if she wants to say something else but doesn’t want to get in trouble. Taking in a breath, she hesitates for a moment before turning around and flouncing out of the room.

But Arthur’s lost the connection he initially felt to the cheek plate. The conversation with the girl has left him feeling agitated, spoiling his earlier tranquillity. Resentful of her intrusion, he shoves his half finished sketch back into his backpack, stands and walks down some stairs towards another, older part of the museum, looking for something, he isn’t sure what.

He pauses in the mineral gallery, where a selection of fossils and crystals catches his eye. One of them is a rusty-looking rock with a shiny cut face. He frowns at it, drawn to the contrast between the texture of the uncut stone and the sleek, polished crystals that adorn the silvery inner surface. He reads the sign, drawing his finger along beneath the text.

 _Iron meteorite,_ it says. _Found by local farmer, 1896._

There’s more detail in the description, which Arthur skips in favour of imagining the rock streaking through the sky, bright and incandescent, before falling to Earth, and being picked up by some hapless yeoman. Perhaps the rock damaged the farmer’s house, or singed the crops on its path down to the ground?

After a happy half an hour sketching the triangular structures on the cut face, Arthur tires of the meteorite and goes off in search of other treasures. He passes through a doorway into a dimly lit space that houses recent finds. Above the doorway is a sign that says “Live Conservation”. Another sign at the entrance has a huge picture of something that looks like a blob of earth with coins sticking out of it, and there’s a long paragraph describing it that Arthur doesn’t bother reading. Presumably this live conservation is of The Blob. There’s probably a posh name for the thing, but The Blob suits it better.

At the other end of the room, an illuminated window looks over a laboratory, where two people in lab-coats are poring over benches lined with microscopes and trays of mucky-looking objects. The stark strip-lighting, incongruous relative to the dingy brown-wood walls and floor, hurts his eyes.

Arthur wonders what it’s like, working in a museum like this, where you’re basically one of the items on display. It must be pretty boring, poring over tiny objects and cataloguing everything in meticulous detail. It wouldn’t be his first choice of career, for sure.

He steps closer, curious; what sort of person would find this sort of thing fun? He’d have thought they’d be elderly, sedentary: dusty, like the books they have to read all the time. Men like Tony Robinson off Time Team, and women like that classics professor, whats her name? Beardy Beard or something. The one that Miss Khan is always going on about. He likes them, on the telly, but he can’t say he’s ever wanted to be like them.

Arthur walks over to the window, where he can watch the conservators at work. He can’t hear anything; either they’re working in silence, or the glass that separates him from them offers soundproofing. At the other end of the lab, an elderly bloke with bedraggled grey hair is pottering about in the background, peering down a microscope and jotting notes down. Arthur nods; he’s exactly the sort of person that Arthur would have imagined doing this.

But as he watches, another conservator enters from a concealed door and walks up towards the window where Arthur is watching. And this one looks surprisingly young… like, really young. If anything, he looks even younger than Arthur! Does the museum employ people on work experience for this sort of thing?

The guy peers down at The Blob. It’s encased in clear plastic, which has a hose trained upon it that sprays some sort of misty stuff. Basically, it’s a big blob of earth coated in a wet sort of sleekness, and shiny things stick out from it, glinting in the harsh lab light. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, he leans forward, his gloved hands busy inside the perspex. His head is bent and an unruly shock of wavy hair, so dark as to almost be black, curls round prominent ears and hides his eyes.

All Arthur can see of his face is a sharp pair of cheekbones jutting out from beneath a pair of bespoke safety goggles. In the middle of each lens of the goggles protrudes a thick additional lens, presumably to give more magnification while the man works on delicate objects, and the whole contraption is topped by a bright torch. It glares out from the middle of the man’s forehead like a massive cyclopean eye. The man is wielding a fine paintbrush, which he dabs at the clumped finds. On the bench by his side, a selection of implements lies waiting—everything from industrial-looking trowels, chisels, and pliers, to more delicate-looking brushes and tweezers. It reminds Arthur of his last visit to the dentist’s.

A badge upon his lapel bears the legend “Merlin”. Merlin. Merlin. It’s a weird name, and he’s heard it before, recently. Where was it now?

As Arthur watches, the conservator passes one of the brushes along the top of The Blob, leaving a wet, glistening trail in its wake. The man has long, steady fingers. His face is still, mouth pursed in concentration. Arthur could watch him for hours.

That’s when he remembers: Merlin was the name of the metal detecting enthusiast that the annoying museum girl was jabbering on about. The one that she called _dumb_. Arthur feels a bit odd, watching him work like this, but presumably he's used to it.

Prompted by a sudden thought, Arthur sits on the bench and rummages in his bag, pulling out his trusty 2B pencil and sketchbook, and traces some careful lines, using his pencil to measure the proportions and contours as his art teacher taught him. Portraiture has always fascinated him, and with a subject so pensive and still, he has an ideal opportunity to trace the spare lines of those cheekbones, the delicate curl of the man’s hairs as they graze the back of his neck.

He’s not sure how long he’s been there when there’s a sudden noise behind him. Hastily turning his page to a sketch of The Blob, Arthur starts to shade in the curve that he’s drawn to represent what looks like some sort of bracelet, sticking out of the morass of jumbled-up coins.

“Ah, there you are, Wildforest!” Lance settles down by his side, peering over his shoulder at the sketchbook. “Found anything interesting yet?”

 “Not really,” lies Arthur.

But the conservator— _Merlin_ —what sort of hippy name was that, anyway?—Merlin chooses that moment to push his safety glasses up onto his forehead, where they ruck his thick black curls into whorls that gather around his face. Abruptly, he stares out through the thick glass window at Arthur. They lock eyes; there’s a flash of vivid blue, and a pair of mocking eyebrows rises. Arthur feels caught. Heat steals up his cheeks.

“Liar,” says Lance, grinning as he nudges Arthur in the ribs. He laughs when Arthur shoves him so hard that he almost falls off the bench.

When Arthur looks up again, Merlin is still staring at him through thick, black lashes, a faint smile playing around his lips. Arthur blinks and shivers at a sudden almost irresistible pull, which draws him right up to the window. He places a splayed hand against the cool glass, raising a shy smile of his own in reply. There’s a fizz of exhilaration buzzing in his veins, making his pulse quicken and making a sudden lightheartedness upwell in his chest. He’s never felt it this before, such an immediate connection with a complete stranger.

“Jesus. You are so gay, bro!” Lance shakes his head. “Picking up some dude in the fucking museum? Only you, Arthur.”

“Fuck off,” says Arthur with little heat, removing his hand from the glass to glare at his friend. “Anyway, it’s not my fault that straight people take ages to work out whether they’re attracted to each other or not. You should take lessons from us gays.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s just you, actually.” Lance huffs out a laugh. It’s a shame he’s straight. He’s bloody gorgeous. But he’s also been Arthur’s best mate since they were day boys together at prep school, and therefore remains off-limits.

“Fuck off!” says Arthur again, shoving at Lance’s shoulder. “Anyway, I don’t know that he’s gay.”

“From the way that he’s eyeing you up, I reckon you’re onto a pretty safe bet,” says Lance.

Sure enough, when Arthur looks up, Merlin is peeping out at him through the glass with a sly half-smile on his face. His eyes flick down to Arthur’s lips and back up again, and then he licks his own lips.

What was it that Sefa had said the boy has? Mutism or something. Does that mean he can’t talk, or that he won’t talk? Does he talk to anybody? What is it like? Maybe, like being dyslexic, it means that people make annoying assumptions about you. Arthur knows what it’s like to find it difficult to communicate. People assume he can read stuff easily all the time, and they take the piss out of his spelling.

Does Merlin have special friends he feels he can talk to? It must be nice, being one of his inner circle. Gazing at the boy’s serious, focused face, Arthur finds himself thinking that he might like to be one of those special ones.

“Yup!” Oblivious to Arthur’s inner monologue, Lance barks out a laugh. “Thought so. You know, that could be a cool theme,” he carries on, nodding at The Blob. “Creating gold from base metal, archaeology, and alchemy. Something like that. Could work.”

Art A Level is tough. They have to discuss themes and develop original ideas, as well as demonstrate technical ability. Lance has a point; Arthur hadn’t thought much beyond a vague idea about the conservator’s cheekbones, which, to be honest, isn’t going to net him an A*, but then Lance has always been the intellectual one out of the two of them.

Lance pulls his own sketchbook out and flips to a blank page, pencil between his teeth as he considers The Blob. He’s a talented artist, Lance, and basically draws stuff all the time. You’d never think that he was such a demon on the football pitch.

Arthur sighs and turns back to his own sketch. He’s good at the technical stuff, yes, but his dyslexia inhibits his abilities in developing themes and ideas. He doesn’t want to disappoint his dad, who wants him to get good grades so he can study Law.

Of course, the fact that Arthur would rather study Fine Art than Law has never really entered into Hector’s plans for him. In fact, Arthur’s wishes have been largely ignored for much of his life. He’d got his way about going to Millfield though, instead of Eton, when his mum intervened. Finna didn’t often stand up to Hector, but when she did, he always caved.

“Told your dad where you are today?” says Lance, nonchalantly. He outlines the edge of what looks like a bracelet with a swift and confident pass of his pencil.

“Jeez, mate, it’s like you can read my mind.” Arthur rolls his eyes and scowls at his own shading work. “How the hell did you know I was thinking about my bloody parents?”

“You’d gone all sulky… it usually means you’re about to launch into a tirade about the stubborn, pompous old bugger. Thought I’d head you off at the pass.” Lance’s hand is working in swift strokes to add shading to his sketch of The Blob.

“Huh. Well, as it happens, no. He thinks I’m at school as usual.” With a put-upon sigh, Arthur digs into his satchel and pulls out his water bottle, taking a couple of long swigs. “I got Kay to forge his signature on the permission slip. Honestly, why on earth didn’t he bloody sign the thing? He bloody well signed Kay's without any fuss. I think that just because I’m nine months younger than him, they think I’m still a baby. Parents, eh?”

When he looks up, Merlin is looking back out at him again, eyes fixed on Arthur’s mouth. Arthur quirks Merlin a little grin. Merlin shakes his head, smiling, and pulls his ugly goggles back down over his face.

“I only ask, because, um. I think I, um. Saw him. Upstairs.” Lance coughs. “Chatting to Miss Khan. Quite loudly, as it happens.”

“What? Fuck!” Hastily, Arthur shovels away all his art materials, darting furtive glances at the exit behind him, expecting his father to come striding in any minute. Hector was not a violent man, but he could bluster for England. “Shit! You could have warned me earlier! You’ve got to hide me, Lance, he’ll kill me! Plus… the old git’s still on at me to drop Art and concentrate on my other subjects. What if he forces me to drop it? Shit!”

But he’s too late. Just as he’s gazing wildly around for an escape route, a pair of sturdy legs appears on the stairwell, swiftly followed by the rest of his dad’s body. Heart sinking, Arthur stands and waits for the inevitable tongue-lashing.

“Arthur Wildforest!” bellows Hector, his voice carrying easily across the museum room, echoing off the dark oak walls, all booming Yorkshire vowels and over-enunciated consonants as always, making him jump. “What the bleeding hell are you doing here?”

He’s furious; Arthur can tell by the thin line of his mouth, by the way his pulse jumps in his neck as he approaches. There’s a flicker of something else as well, as Hector looks up towards the lab where Merlin’s working. Arthur can’t gauge it; some dark emotion that could almost be fear, if his bullish father could ever be thought of as being afraid of anything.

Arthur takes in a deep breath. He’s being stupid. The sinking feeling of being discovered is skewing his judgment. As if a skinny twig like Merlin could inspire an emotion such as fear in Yorkshire’s finest!

“Sorry, Dad,” mumbles Arthur.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Miss Khan making her way painfully down the stairs, her face a picture of stern displeasure, and he groans. Great. Now he’s been caught forging his parents’ signature. He bloody hopes he doesn’t get grounded, or worse, thrown off the football team. They’ve got a big match coming up, the first of the season against Bristol Inner City Academy, and after last season they’ve got a lot to prove.

“Don’t lie to me, son,” thunders Hector. “You’re in trouble now, lad, and you know it.” He strides across the floor and stands square in front of him, shaking his head. “I understand that you want to study Art, but when I forbade you to come on this field trip, I had perfectly good reasons. You’ll understand one day.” His gaze flicks up towards the lab again. Puzzled, Arthur follows his line of sight, but all he can see is the shaggy top of Merlin’s bowed head. “You’re not to come back here, son. If I find out you have, there will be no Art A Level for you. You’ll drop it and focus on Maths and History. Understand?”

“But, why?” No Art A level? But Art is the only thing that Arthur has ever been really good at, apart from sport.

Stricken, Arthur looks away again. This time, it’s Hector that follows Arthur’s line of sight. Merlin is staring directly at him, eyes flash of vivid blue against the stark white light of the lab.

“And you’re not to go consorting with the staff here neither,” Hector says, waggling a fat forefinger.

Whyever not? Arthur doesn’t articulate his disquiet; he’s learned over long years of locking horns with his father that there’s nothing that will make Hector dig his heels in as fast as Arthur answering him back. But still, his heart aches with curiosity. He’ll be back. Whether Hector sanctions it or not. He’ll find a way.

 

***

_...faint lines in the rock hint at its internal fabric, laid down by long-vanished ancient waters..._

***

 

The baby is small, ugly, and covered in blood. Thick clots pool on its bare torso and mat its filthy hair. Its face contorts into a dreadful grimace as it screams.

“No!” Princess Morgana Pendragon tries to scream, echoing the baby’s tortured cries. But her terror silences her, and only a vague croak comes out. “No!” She gasps in a breath, desperate to scream for help, for anyone to help her as the ghastly baby’s face looms ever larger, as its mouth opens wider, revealing decaying gums that reek of death and disaster. “No!”

She wakes with a gasp, her heart ping-ponging against her rib cage, her wordless cry silenced by the cool dimness of the room. She’s lying on top of her bed in the royal apartments, her counterpane entangled with her thrashing limbs. The room is dim, the vague outline of the window pale and luminous against the curtains. Glancing at the clock, she notes the time. Six thirty-five. The alarm will sound soon, and with it the day will start. But she feels far from rested. Her head pounds in time with the insistent thud of her heart.

She groans, heart slowing, as she pads over to the window, and looks out over the city through hollow, pained eyes.

Three nights in a row. Three nights in a row she has woken sweating, her head throbbing, the terrifying images piling one against the next, wave upon wave of sickness and taint that make her skin pebble and her stomach heave. Broken bodies of infants and the terrified cries of their mothers dominate her dreams. They’re not normal, she knows that. Nothing can stop them. Nothing! Except...

Her gaze drops to her dressing table where a plain, velvet-covered black jewellery box sits alone and prominent. She strokes it, smoothing the weft of the fabric with her fingertips. Instantly, her heart rate slows.

How can it be that such an object soothes her so?

Abruptly, she flicks the bead at the front of the box and flips open the lid. Inside lies a simple-looking bangle, made of some tarnished, dullish silver metal and inlaid with amber. It’s much plainer than most of her jewellery. Plainer, and older, too. She both loves it and fears it, although she can’t remember why. Just as she loves and fears her therapist, Morgause, who gave it to her, saying that it would help with her nightmares.

No. She won’t put it on. She is stronger than this.

Tucked away behind the bracelet is a cutting from the "news" section of a recent edition of a well-known popular science magazine. She pulls it out between two fingers and unfurls it. Gwen’s face is there, beaming out at her, reassuring in her confidence. Morgana smiles back down at her. Dear Gwen. Such lovely memories Morgana has of their university days together. She is so happy to see that Gwen has the position she always wanted at the museum.

 _‘Natural History Museum Funding Boost’_ states the title of the piece.

  

  ** _Natural History Museum Funding Boost_**

 

> _...has secured funding for a unique new facility to analyse archaeological objects without damaging them. “We’re thrilled to be able to use this cutting-edge technology, here in Albion,” stated spokeswoman Dr Guinevere Smith. “Previously we relied on shared facilities in overseas laboratories, with their own competing priorities. We’re immensely grateful to the unknown donor who has made this possible. It’s been an enormous amount of work to get the lab set up, but we’re now ready and we are already seeing a lot of interest from archaeological projects around the world.” _
> 
> _With the catchily named External Beam Particle-Induced X-Ray Emission technique (PIXE for short), the conservators bombard objects with a beam of charged particles. The objects give off x-rays, and by identifying their wavelengths the analysts can work out the chemical composition of the object._
> 
> _“This will help us to answer important questions about an object, such as where it comes from, whether it’s genuine, and how old it is, without damaging it,” enthuses Dr Smith.’_

 

Morgana can just imagine Gwen enthusing over a complicated piece of equipment bristling with shiny bits and LED screens. She smiles at the scrap of paper and smooths it upon her desk, before folding it carefully and tucking it into the box, behind the bracelet. Her hand lingers on the bracelet for a second. It calls to her. Bracelets shouldn’t do that, should they? It practically begs her to wear it. She resists, but it’s hard. Her head throbs and she blinks.

Abruptly, she flips the lid closed again. A sudden sharp pain surges through her, making her throat clamp closed. She’s on the edge of crying. But why?

As she watches, fingertips lingering on the box, a stray ray of sunlight, stained red by the sunrise, streams through the window and alights upon her hand, bathing it in crimson. It’s as if her hand is awash with blood that streams through her fingers and onto the desk.

“Wear me,” whispers the bracelet.

“No!” she says out loud, aghast, chest heaving with the sudden shock. But, oh, how she longs to, and how her head pains her when she resists! She inhales sharply, and a sob shakes her chest. She must wear it. She must. Oh, how she wants to! But no. She cannot!

Abruptly, and with trembling fingers, she jabs at the box and pulls out the bracelet. She pulls it on with a click, sliding it up from her forearm to sit snugly around her bare upper arm. Instantly the demons in her head flee. Her breathing quietens once more.

The bracelet is warm where it encircles her flesh, caressing her where it nestles close to her skin. She sighs, and a flicker of a smile ghosts across her face.

 _You see,_ it seems to say. _Isn’t that better?_

A distant, hidden part of her screams that something is wrong, but she ignores it. Her chest feels lighter, and the weather seems sunnier, somehow.

No longer shaky-handed, she slides something out from beneath her nightgown. A long, golden chain. Upon it, a silver key glints orange in the pale dawn light. Still smiling faintly, she bends, with the key still attached, and inserts it into a drawer upon her dresser. Out slides the drawer.

Within it, upon a purple silk cloth, lies a simple dagger, plain and deadly, its tip hewn to a peak of sharpness. She passes her idle fingertip along it, her smile broadening. Now she knows what to do. Her mind focuses, its clarity in stark contrast to her previous confusion. It is odd, how such a little thing as a bracelet can reduce all courses of action to a single, simple path.

There is a sudden knock at the door.

“Your Highness?” It’s Leon, his voice smooth and calm as always. “The King wishes to know if you will be joining him for breakfast this morning?”

“Of course, Leon.” With a sigh, she pushes the drawer closed, with the dagger still inside.

She reluctantly removes the bracelet from her bare wrist and lays it carefully in its box.

***

***

Kay Wildforest relishes those fleeting, quiet moments when only he and his mother are in the house. She’s upstairs somewhere, humming while she writes, and the only other sound is the intermittent thud thud of her fingers drumming on the keyboard. She’ll probably appreciate a cup of tea. He flicks down the switch on the kettle and opens the fridge in search of snacks.

Toby, their Cairn terrier, sniffs around at his feet and worries at his shoelaces. Kay bends to pet his warm little body and picks up his empty dog bowl, contemplating giving him another half tin of something.

He’s just forking chunks of tinned rabbit into the bowl when the telly catches his eye. It’s muted, but he can see that it’s the evening news. Headlines flash across the screen. There’s been another one of those drone attacks at a football match, causing panic as the drone unleashed fire on the pitch. In the footage, the thing looks just like a dragon. It’s a miracle no-one was hurt, says the headline. Clever, though, the way that the prankster made the thing look so realistic.

The camera breaks to a story about the royal family. As Toby laps up some fresh water from his other bowl, Kay watches with half an eye. The camera cuts to the King stepping out of a limo, onto some red carpet or another. Idly, Kay wonders if Princess Morgana will be attending whatever event it is. He’s always had a crush on her. Remote, unattainable and with a sort of fragile beauty on the surface that he is sure hides an inner steel beneath.

The scrolling headline states _Crown Princess raises objections to King’s new anti-magic policy initiative_ when she finally appears on the screen. Suddenly interested, he flicks off the mute button.

“...father is wrong on this point, and surely we cannot justify such systemic human rights abuses…” she states in that compelling voice of hers, her huge green eyes trained imploringly on the camera.

She’s so beautiful, and her cause so right. Kay would follow her to the ends of the earth, and beyond, if she asked him to. He can hear his father’s voice in his head now: _Uther Pendragon is nothing but a coward and a bully. Calls himself King. Hah! He’s not fit to rule a straight line._

Years ago, Uther was just a lowly Member of Parliament, but somehow he managed to manoeuvre himself into the Prime Minister’s position. Some day, people will study Uther’s rapid ascent to power in the same way as twentieth century historians study the rise to power of other famous dictators, and find a common undercurrent that allows such people to trick their way to the top. A complacent political system; systematic injustice for growing groups of people; flagrant misuses of power. Such are the nutrients that fertilise the soil, making it ripe for the rise of a populist tyrant.

Absently, Kay fishes in his bag for a notebook, so he can jot these ideas down. Not that he’d dare articulate them in a History essay. But maybe one day, when Pendragon’s dead and gone, with his daughter on the throne in his place... maybe she would make a good queen? Obviously a return to democracy would be better, but he doesn’t hold out much hope of that occurring any time soon.

As he writes, Princess Morgana is starting to speak again on TV, but any other insights she might have to offer are lost when Arthur and Hector push through the kitchen door, arguing at the tops of their voices.

“...lying to me, and your mother, there will be consequences—”

“...not a stupid subject, it’s all I’ve ever wanted to—”

As usual, Toby joins in with loud yaps.

Sighing, Kay mutes the telly again and takes another bite of his sandwich. And that’s when his mum pops her head round the door.

“What’s all the racket?” she says, concern painting a thick line between her brows. “Quiet, Toby. Oh, Kay, darling, yes please, I’d love a cuppa. Anyone else?” Without waiting for an answer, she opens the cupboard door and pulls out the tea caddy and four mugs.

“Our youngest has been deceiving us, Finna,” Hector starts, while she gives him a sympathetic peck on the cheek and fishes a bottle of milk out of the fridge. “The school has given me the evidence.”

“Evidence?” says Kay, a sudden chill raising goose bumps on his forearms.

“Aye, son, evidence. This here permission slip.” Hector waves the offending object around with an accusing air. “I certainly didn’t bloody well sign this, so one of you two Herberts must have forged my signature. Given Arthur’s inability to spell even his own name, it must have been you, Kay. Do you deny it?”

Shit, shit, shit.

Momentarily paralysed at the thought that he’s been found out, Kay bites his lip. He hates being in trouble with his Dad. It’s all right for Arthur, with his golden hair and his bloody extroversion. Arthur always seems to be able to talk his way out of things. But Kay generally prefers to steer clear of the sort of drama that seems to dog Arthur’s footsteps.

“Um,” he starts, miming chewing his sandwich, describing circle round his lips with his finger and pointing at his working mouth, as if to say, can’t speak, can’t you see I’m chewing? But in reality, he’s not chewing, not any more, he just wants to buy himself some time. He’s not great at dissembling; that has always Arthur’s strength, not his. Kay trains pleading eyes on his little brother. _Save me,_ he thinks.

“It was me, Father,” lies Arthur, coming to his rescue in the nick of time, before Kay has a chance to blurt out his confession, because Kay can’t lie for toffee, and Arthur knows it. “Kay had nothing to do with it. It was, I… it’s just like an art project, really. I, um, I forged it, Dad, I had to practice a bit.”

Arthur’s laying it on a bit thick, now. It sounds like he’s boasting. Kay has to look away to hide his concern.

Sensing his disquiet, Arthur changes tack.

“Not that it’s a good thing to do, I realise that, Dad. It’s just that I really wanted to go on that trip. And I’m really good at art. It’s nothing to do with spelling, it’s all about the shape of the lines, I’m good at drawing, Dad!”

Yeah, Arthur is pretty amazing at Art, it’s true. And lying, adds Kay in the silence of his own head, breathing out carefully through his nose, although he’s grateful, so he doesn’t say it out loud, just sits there with his lips clamped mutinously shut and his eyes trained on the now unappetising-looking remains of his sandwich. He wishes he’d never seen that bloody permission slip.

He’s forged his dad’s signature so many times that he’s become a bit blasé about it. Stupid, he berates himself.

Arthur’s still talking.

“And anyway that’s why I wanted to go to the museum, Dad, it’s not like it was dangerous or anything. It was a school trip! Nothing bad happened. You let Kay go, and I really wanted to go, too.”

“We’ve talked about this, Arthur,” says Finna, crossing her arms. “You’ll understand when you’re older why we have to restrict your movements more than Kay. It’s for your own good!” She pours the boiling water into the cups and swirls the tea with a spoon.

“But why?” Arthur frowns, his jaw set in a stubborn line, and puts his hands on his hips. “I’m nearly 18, Dad. I’m stronger than Kay, I can defend myself you know, I’m good at fighting, thanks to all the karate and fencing and stuff, whereas Kay’s just…um.”

“I’m what?” Kay’s just a bookworm, and he knows it, but even so, he’d rather Arthur didn’t say it.

“You know! Better at chess, and stuff. And anyway,” says Arthur, hastily. “I’ll be an adult soon, and I still have no way of knowing which things you won’t let me do! It makes no sense! I only wanted to look at the objects…”

“I told you,” says Dad.  “You’re going to have to trust me. Glastonbury is dangerous for you, lad, you have to keep away. It’s vitally important. And you know I think you shouldn’t be studying Art....”

“You’re letting Kay study Art even though he’s going to do PPE at Uni!” says Arthur.

“Kay is on track for A stars in all his other subjects,” interrupts Finna.

“Mum!” protests Kay. “Don’t bring me into this!”

“That doesn’t alter the fact that I can look after myself!” says Arthur. “Anyway, it was only one time…”

“Oh, yeah?” Dad carries on, heaving his bulk into a kitchen chair and pulling a couple more bits of paper out of his briefcase. “The school very kindly gave me copies of all these permission slips and all. Going back a good three years, they are. Alton Towers…” he selects one piece of paper and spreads it out on the table, glaring at Arthur. “The pub. Victoria and Albert Museum. Tintagel. Bristol Museum of Slavery… the list goes on… Why, Arthur? It’s not as if I would have denied you permission for most of these trips! I’ve been perfectly clear that it’s Glastonbury you need to avoid. So why lie about it?”

Kay’s heart sinks down to his boots. Shit. He hopes his Dad doesn’t start asking the school about all his old permission slips. He’s been forging that signature since Year Nine. It’d be awful if his parents found out about Devon. Hoping to avoid further questions, he starts to slide his way towards the door.

“I just thought,” Arthur says, gazing at the ceiling as if for inspiration. “Rather than bother you with all these trivial bits of paperwork, it would be easier to—”

“You’re my bloody son, Arthur!” bellows Hector, so loud it makes Kay jump. “And I’m your father and protector! I am entitled to know where you are! You’re grounded for a month. Go to your room!”

“I’ll just…” Kay turns the door handle, pushes the door open a little, and starts to edge through the gap, hoping his father won’t notice. It looks like Hector has swallowed Arthur’s story. His dad and his brother are too busy locking horns, as usual, and pay him no attention.

“But, Dad!” protests Arthur, his face flushing bright pink, the only sign of real anger that he’s displayed yet. “The First Eleven are going to the pub on Saturday! I can’t—”

“Grounded, and that’s my last word on the matter.”

Arthur’s grinding his jaw, but he nods out his agreement and stalks past Kay into the hallway.

Hector fans his paper out and peers through his reading glasses at the crossword. Kay lets out a breath and shuffles after his brother.

“Thanks, bro,” he whispers to Arthur on his way past.

But it’s okay. They both know that their debts go both ways.

 

***

***

 

“Coming to the pub tonight, Wildforest?” Gwaine swings his football kit bag onto his shoulder.

Although Gwaine is a boarding pupil, he’s allowed out to the pub on Saturday nights. Lucky bastard. Arthur’s a day pupil, and yet his dad won’t let him out at all, not after the bloody museum fiasco.

Talk about infantilising; here Arthur is, on the cusp of adulthood, and his bloody parents won’t even allow him to go out with his mates after football, all because he went on a fucking school trip. He would moan about it, but he doesn’t want to think about it too much; when he does, his throat closes with the injustice of it all. Plus, his mates have all heard him expound at length on the topic many times already.

“Nah,” he spits out. With a grimace, he shakes his head, leaning forward to stretch out his calf muscles. “Still bloody grounded, mate.”

It’s the end of football practice, and he knows his mum will be waiting in the car, and every minute past their allotted meeting time will result in a longer lecture.

“Shame you’re not a boarder. Your dad keeps you locked up worse than our Housemaster,” says Gwaine. “And rumour has it that the lovely ladies' rugby team are gonna be there.”

“Still gay, in case you hadn’t noticed, Gwaine,” growls Arthur.

“Awww, doesn’t mean you can’t branch out a little.”

“It does if I’m grounded, arsehole.”

“Bad luck.” Percy thumps him sympathetically on the back, a little bit too hard.

“Jesus, Perce, you’re meant to be my mate,” says Arthur, grateful to have something else to complain about. “There’s no need to pummel me within an inch of my life.”

“Oops?” says Percy, grinning.

“Fuck.” Arthur rolls his shoulders. “You forget your strength, sometimes.”

They carry on bickering as they round the corner past the changing block. Mum’s car is outside the school, and she’s waiting there, as if he can’t even be trusted to leave the school by himself. His heart burns with the injustice of it.

“In you hop.”

He does, without speaking, tossing his mucky kit onto the back seat. She’s listening to Radio 4, though, so she probably won’t notice his sulk. Training his eyes onto the passing hedgerows, he grinds his jaw. Mum doesn't normally pick him up; Dad must be out at a client, and Mum must have finished surgery deliberately early, just so that he couldn't get the bus home. Bloody overprotective parents. 

“They all off to the pub, tonight, then?” says Mum, conversationally.

Arthur grunts.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her shaking her head. “Sulking won’t help, you know. Once Hector’s set on something, you’re not going to change his mind with sulking. Perhaps you could try, I don’t know, being helpful for once?”

“What’s the point?”

“Don’t pout, Arthur.”

“I’m not pouting!”

“I was going to say that, at least if you make an effort around the house, the place will be clean, even if it doesn’t have the desired effect of getting you your way.”

“That’s not helping, Mum.”

“It would help me.” She sighs, twisting her hands on the steering wheel. “I hate it when you and your father fight.” She looks tired.

“But these rules of his are so… he just seems to make them up, Mum, there’s no rhyme or reason to them.”

“I know they seem arbitrary, love,” she says. They’re coming up to a junction with a red traffic light. She stops and turns towards him while she waits for the filter, letting go of the gear lever to pat his hand. “There’s a reason for all of it, Arthur, and we will explain everything when you’re eighteen, all right? I promise. But until now, please just understand that we are trying to keep you safe.”

“Stop being so bloody reasonable about it, Mum.” This is the trouble with his mum. He can’t stay angry, or even sulky, with her for long. She explains things. He knows where he is with her.

They sit in silence for a bit, watching the vast sky roll by.

“Mum,” he says, eventually.

"Yes, darling?"

He bites his lip as he considers giving voice to a question that has been nagging at him for days. What's the point of having a parent who's a doctor, if you can't ask them questions about stuff that's bothering you? “What’s it called when someone doesn't speak, but they do sometimes?” 

She frowns, craning her head over her right shoulder as she scans the road before pulling out onto it. "I'm not sure I follow you. Do you mean alalia? Aphasia? There are quite a few diagnoses that mean someone can't speak. And then there's mutism? Or selective mutism? Or dysarthria—"

"No, no!" he interrupts, forgetting that he's in a mood with the excitement of recognition. "Mutism! That's it! Selective mutism!" He rolls the words around with his tongue, testing them out. "What does it mean exactly, when someone has it? I mean, can they be cured? Do they need an operation or something?"

"Why on earth...?" She huffs out a startled laugh. “Talk about changing the subject! Um. Selective mutism is an anxiety disorder, mainly a childhood one, whereby, in unfamiliar situations, or with unfamiliar people, the patient literally cannot speak. Terribly debilitating, and awfully difficult to diagnose, of course. I’ve seen a few people with it in my surgery over the years… mostly children, although I know at least one adult with it... in his case, it was brought on by a severe trauma. Mostly, people grow out of it. As a practitioner, I focus my efforts on helping schools to create an environment of trust, so the child feels safe, and adaptations to accommodate the child’s anxiety issues. Why do you ask?”

Shit. She’s got that nonchalant air about her, the one that means she’s pretending to be casual, but actually listening intently to whatever he says.

“No reason?” he says, shaking his head. Shit. What if this Merlin chap is one of her patients? What if she knows him? “Bloke at school’s sister has it. That’s all.” He stares resolutely out of the window and wills the flaming heat on his cheeks to go away.

“Arthur,” she says, gently. “You do know that you can tell me anything, in confidence, don’t you? I’m not going to pry, but if there’s something bothering you, I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Father?” he says, ignoring the fact that he’s basically acknowledging that he has something bothering him.

“Not even him,” she says. But then they’re pulling into their drive, and he can’t say anything else, not in the short time that they have left in the car together. "Not if you don't want me to."

“Thanks, Mum,” he says, with his hand on the door handle. The conversation has calmed him down. It always does, with his mum; he doesn’t know how she does it. Years of practice at calming his father’s temper, probably.

“Don’t just thank me, love,” she says, flashing him a grin. “Do your laundry.”

He laughs.

***

***

 

 _“Merlin,”_ hisses the voice inside his head.

 _Not you again._ Groaning, Merlin turns on his pillow, buries his face in it. Can’t he get a decent night’s sleep, for once?

There’s a distant chuckle. “It is not your fate to sleep, young warlock,” it says, in a distant, reptilian whisper. “The magic is rising. Fell deeds are afoot. Join me, and we shall bring back Albion’s glory. The once and future king must rise and defeat the witches. Albion’s need is at hand.”

 _Once and future bollocks_ , thinks Merlin viciously. Because he can really do without this the sort of thing. All he wants is to find beautiful things, uncover their glory, and bring them to the museum for the world to share. He’s good at that, and he enjoys it. He can do without mythical creatures haunting the liminal space between sleeping and waking with their cryptic pronouncements. He just wants to be left alone. But more and more, of late, the dragon invades his mind in that sacred moment when Merlin’s eyelids start to droop. And he calls for Merlin to come to him. Well, Merlin wants none of it.

He’s told Uncle Gaius about the dragon, of course. Uncle Gaius advised him to ignore it, which is all very easy for him to say. He’s not the one that’s finding it impossible to sleep without being bombarded by messages inside his own head.

Sometimes he talks to his mum about it, in his head. She doesn’t answer, of course, but it helps to think that she might be listening, even though he knows deep down that she isn’t and that she’s gone forever.

 _Mum, I wish you’d tell that irritating lizard to butt out of my head and mind his own bloody business,_ he thinks now.

 _“Rest then, for now, warlock,”_ says the dragon, adding ominously, _“while you still may.”_

With that, it is gone. And yet, Merlin can find no rest.

***

_...the ornate though worn-looking Tudor Rose carved above the door. Even the weathering of this stone seems perfect, and lends it a timelessness..._

_***_

 

One Sunday in early October, the autumn mists lift from the rain-drenched landscape to reveal a rare moment of sunshine. The First Eleven have a rest weekend, and Arthur is bored. Boredom sits on him about as naturally as inactivity, which is to say not at all.

The same cannot be said of his brother. He drags a protesting Kay, still clutching his latest book, out of bed by one foot.

“Oof.” Kay’s torso hits the pile of unwashed laundry that litters his hardwood floor with a dull thud. “Fuck’s sake, Arthur!”

“Come on, mate,” Arthur says, chuckling as he pushes a pair of slightly worn but clean boxers into his brother’s face and drops a T-shirt onto the ground. “Get yourself dressed. We’re going out.”

“We are?” Kay rubs his eyes with balled fists. “Ugh. It’s too early. I thought you were still grounded?”

“Dad says I can go out if you come with me,” says Arthur, beaming at him. It has been a long and relentless battle, tirelessly fought, but finally Arthur has won his father over by dint of early-morning car-washing and laundry duties. Arthur has always been good at perseverance; maybe there’s something about dyslexia that augments his ability to apply himself with sheer, dogged determination, and grind his opponents down by persisting beyond their reserves of obstinacy and patience. “So, what are you waiting for? Chop chop! Get dressed.”

Kay groans but starts to manoeuvre himself onto his hands and knees anyway. “Fuck, Arthur. You’re such an entitled prat sometimes.”

“Yeah, but you owe me one, remember? After this we’ll be quits.” Arthur tries a conspiratorial grin.

Kay shakes his head, but pulls on an old t-shirt, albeit horribly slowly, and inside-out. It’s as if he’s still asleep.

“Come on, mate, we haven’t got all day!” Arthur shoves a sweat-shirt at him.

“I’m not wearing that,” grumbles Kay, scratching at his belly. “Needs washing.”

“Then put it in the bloody dirty linen basket!” Arthur picks more soiled items up off the floor, not looking at them too carefully, before tossing them onto the overflowing laundry basket. “You’re such a bloody sloven…”

“I have important things to think about than bloody laundry, arsehole.” Kay pulls on a scruffy pair of jeans with paint stains down the front.

“You’re just a lazy fucker.” Arthur wrinkles his nose at a particularly crusty pair of socks, hastily discarding them before opening up a drawer in search of clean ones. Predictably, Kay’s sock drawer is empty save for a single Homer Simpson sock which he combines with a cleanish Christmas sock that has only a small hole in it, and tosses at Kay’s head. “Put these on. Honestly, I’m surprised you’re not constantly ill. It’s like you’ve never heard of the word hygiene…”

“Cheeky sod.”

“Mucky bugger.”

Eventually he’s dressed and the two of them thud down the stairs two at a time. Arthur grasps the front door handle. Unfortunately, that’s when Toby sees them and runs out of the kitchen, jumping up with excited little yaps.

“Shh!” says Arthur, fondling his ears. But it’s too late.

“Where do you think you're going?” calls Hector, ever vigilant, from the kitchen.

Bugger.

“We’re just going for a bike ride, Dad,” Arthur calls back.

 _“What?”_ says Kay. He sounds aghast. He’s got a terrible case of bed hair, and he’s yawning like a hippo. “I didn’t—”

“Shh! It’ll do you good to get some fresh air and exercise for once, bro.” Arthur silences him with a finger to the mouth before yelling. “It’s okay, Dad. Kay’s coming with me.”

“No, I’m bloody not,” whispers Kay, forehead puckering. No doubt the lazy bastard intended to spend the day closeted with a book somewhere.

“And I promise we won’t go near Glastonbury,” shouts Arthur, drowning out his brother’s voice.

So far he’s managed to keep away from the neighbouring town, despite its many enticing qualities. He still has no idea what is driving the worry that he sees in his father’s eyes whenever Glastonbury is mentioned. What he does know is that he has an almost unbearable sense of curiosity about the boy he saw at the museum.

For weeks, now, he’s been falling asleep every night with a vision of tousled black hair and dancing blue eyes, trying to recapture the dizzy feeling that hit him when they locked eyes, even just for a second. He fails, instead waking with a sort of ecstatic sort of warmth buzzing in his gut. It’s driving him crazy.

He squashes it, not for the first time, and resolves to drive it out of his system by exhausting himself on the bike. At least with his legs pumping and sweat stinging his eyes, muscles screaming at him to stop, he can drive thoughts of long, clever, pale fingers and a teasing smile out of his brain for a few moments.

“I’m bloody well not bloody going any-bloody-where,” Kay repeats, a little louder this time. He opens his mouth as if to yell something through the closed kitchen door.

“Shhh!” says Arthur, hastily, continuing in an urgent undertone, “look, mate, you don’t have to come with me beyond the end of the street, okay? Or… or I’ve got a tenner. Here.“ Arthur rummages in his pocket and fishes out a brown note. It’s worth it. He’ll go mad if he’s stuck inside for a moment longer.

“But…”

“You can go to Greggs or something, get a pasty, and munch it?” Arthur cajoles. He can sense that his brother is wavering; the mention of a Greggs pasty always does that. It is a miracle that Kay is such a scrawny git, the amount of junk that he eats. Kay will cave soon; he always does. Inwardly crowing, Arthur plays his trump card. “And then maybe go to the library? Just don’t go home before I’m back.”

“What are you boys muttering about?” Mum comes out of the kitchen, making him jump.

“Nothing!” Arthur says. “Just… you know, discussing our route.” He shifts his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. He’s fundamentally a truthful boy, despite what Kay thinks. He’s never liked having to dissemble, but really, if he’s cooped up for a second longer he will literally go mad. He needs exercise, needs to feel the elements on his face and the tiredness of exertion, needs them as surely as he needs air, and surely his parents know that about him by now?

“Hmm.” She eyes him sceptically. “Just don’t get into any trouble.” She walks off into the kitchen.

Arthur lets out a breath. “Go on, Kay. Please? Say you will? I’ll meet you at the library; they’ll be none the wiser.”

Kay chews his lip uncertainly. “All right,” he says, at last, bending to pull on his trainers. “But you owe me one.”

“Sure thing, mate.” Arthur high-fives his brother.

But, to be honest, no-one really knows who owes what to whom, any more.

***

***

Morgana misses Gwen so much. Oh, how she misses her. She misses Gwen brushing her hair for her, laughing until tiny dimples appeared in her cheeks. She misses those warm, summer days of studying together—or rather, Gwen studying, while Morgana watches surreptitiously from beneath her lashes, Gwen’s face a mask of concentration. Staying up until all hours, drinking Bailey’s and watching French films with English subtitles.

It’s a distant dream now, tucked away behind layers of duty and subterfuge. Always the subterfuge. If Uther discovers Morgana’s magic, there will be hell to pay. And she can not afford that; not when she is on the cusp of controlling it, with Morgause’s help.

“How have you managed to get so many knots?” says Eira, tugging gently at the ends.

“Talent, I suppose,” says Morgana, stifling a yawn. “Maybe I was a Medusa in a past life?”

“Medusa? Is that a foreign lady?” Eira pulls a face. “Don’t like foreigners, myself. All that garlic.” She shudders.

“No, Eira,” says Morgana, frowning. “Medusa was a Gorgon, from Greek mythology.”

“Thought so,” says Eira, blithely, giving Morgana’s hair a swift tug that makes her wince. “Foreign. Just what I said. All very nice on holiday, but I don’t like all those foreigners coming over here, begging your pardon, Miss. The only thing worse are those mucky magic users. Ugh.”

“There are lots of wonderful _foreign_ people living over here.” Morgana balls her fists beneath the table, willing herself not to lose her temper. “And I have met some very kind magic users, Eira. It’s wrong to judge a group of people by the actions of one or two individuals.”

That’s another thing she finds annoying about Eira; the casual xenophobia that sometimes spills over into outright bigotry. She would fire the girl on the spot, if she didn’t think it would make Uther suspicious.

“They’re just acting nice because you are famous, miss,” says Eira, passing the brush swiftly over the ends of Morgana’s hair. “As for these bloody magical rights terrorists, my mum says they’d cut you as soon as look at you. I won’t have any truck with them, that’s for sure. String ‘em all up. Your Dad’s got that right.”

 _And yet, I’d rather spend half an hour in an average magic user’s company than five minutes in yours,_ thinks Morgana. She fights to hold her irritation behind her teeth, clamping her mouth into a thin line. There’s no point starting an argument about this: thanks to Morgana’s own father, Eira’s got both the law and the weight of public opinion behind her on this matter. Morgana doesn’t even dare think what Eira’s reaction might be if she found out about Morgana’s secrets. She’d go running straight to the king, probably. Maybe she has his ear already? Maybe she reports these conversations to Uther verbatim? Morgana can’t trust her. She can’t trust anybody.

There’s a sudden sharp pain in the palms of her hands. She’s digging so hard with her fingernails that she wouldn’t be surprised if she draws blood. Above their heads, the lights flicker.

“That’s weird. Another power cut, my lady?”

It’s not a power cut. It’s Morgana’s magic responding to Eira’s repeated bigotry. Alarmed, Morgana closes her eyes and with an effort wills her magic to be still. It would not do to be found out now, just when she’s managing to control it for the first time.

“Now, there you are,” says Eira, with a blithe flourish of her fingers that twisted the final lock into place. “All braided and beautiful at last. May I go now, my lady?”

“Yes, dear girl, of course you may,” says Morgana, watching Eira’s retreating back through the mirror, thinking over the conversation with a deepening sense of isolation.

She’s so lonely, here in the palace. Eira is her closest companion, and she doesn’t even like the girl, let alone trust her. Above all, she craves intelligent conversation. If only Gwen were here. When Morgana made that comment about the Medusa, Gwen would have made some quip about not being able to look Morgana in the eye or something, and then they’d have had a lively discussion about the science of ancient Greek mythology, and Gwen would have won, of course, but so graciously that Morgana wouldn’t have minded. Not for the first time, Morgana wishes that she could have Gwen for a maid.

But it is not to be: Gwen has made her own life, and she deserves to be successful, no matter how Morgana feels her lack at times like this, when she has to share those intimate moments with Eira instead. For, despite Eira’s clever fingers, she lacks Gwen’s kindness and warmth, as well as the intellectual depth of the discussions they used to have. Art versus science. Spirituality versus rationality.

So, Morgana shakes her head and fixes mournful eyes upon the mirror. Something jingles in counterpoint upon her breast: a key lies upon her nightgown, dangling small and heavy on her throat. She frowns. How did that get there? Where has she seen it before? She knew once, surely. What was it again?

But the sudden pain in her head prevents her from remembering.

Absently, she drops the key down the neck of her nightgown. She has to keep it a secret; she’s not sure why. She can’t remember. It hurts to try. There’s a blankness there, where the memory should be. Surely… it’s on the edge of consciousness… she grasps at it, but a blinding pain shoots through her skull. Her head pounds. She puts a hand to her forehead, massaging the pained furrow between her eyes.

Abruptly, she pulls out a drawer, retrieves the velvet box and fixes the bracelet around her arm. It’s amazing and a bit alarming at first how quickly it soothes her, relaxes her. She gazes at her reflection and smiles. Her hand is already clutching at the key around her neck, inserting it into the secret compartment, pulling free the jewelled dagger. Ah, now she remembers! This will free her from her torment. She smirks at the mirror.

“Soon,” she whispers.

 

***

_...drawing curves and spirals is quite relaxing..._

 ***


	2. Climb through the briar and bramble

It’s warm, for October at least, and Arthur‘s enjoying the feeling of the wind on his bare arms as he speeds along the tiny lane near the River Tone. The villages, with their evocative names—Middlezoy, Othery, Athelney, Curload, Stathe, Curry Mallet, Beercrocombe—are a mere blur. The sound of his laboured breathing is loud, the woosh of an occasional passing vehicle obscured by the rush of wind in his ears.

On the return leg, he stops in the village of Burrowbridge, just before Athelney, and ties his bike up, attaching his helmet to it with the lock. He makes his way on foot through the gate to Burrow Mump, a prominent spot of high ground, labouring up the steep hill to the war memorial. With a groan, he flops upon the damp grass, his back against the sun-warmed wall of the ruined chapel. He sucks water from his plastic bottle, waiting for his breath to settle. The sun is quite low in the sky still, and the tower’s shadows stretch out across the flat land to the north behind him, where, in the distance, the prominent peak of Glastonbury Tor beckons him back towards Street. He ignores its insistent presence and looks instead out to the south.

All around, the flat, patchwork landscape of fields and hedgerows is alive with birds. It’s hard to believe that these flatlands had all flooded so badly, as recently as two years ago, now that the floodwaters have drained away and the farmers have returned to the land. As he watches, a great black mass arises from the marshes; a huge flock of starlings, startled by something, billows and bulges through the sky in a giant, Tolkienesque cloud. He watches them for a while, fascinated, wondering where they roost at night. Somewhere out there in the flats and the reed beds, he knows, but he’s not sure exactly where.

Suddenly his gaze trips over a lonely figure, solitary as it moves across a nearby field. It holds a stick out in front of it, scanning the soil with it as it moves slowly across the ground. A farmer, perhaps, checking the soil of his land? Arthur squints, rubbing his eyes. As the figure grows nearer, he can make out a mop of untidy black hair, the huge earphones attached to the machine. A detectorist, then, searching for treasure. It’s a romantic notion, but still, a strange thing to do, to wear earphones on a day like this, when blackbirds are trilling ecstatically in the trees and the sky is washed blue and full of promise. Arthur’s still thinking of the deep blue of the sky, and of hope and promise, when the metal detector guy, only fifty or so metres away, looks up and Arthur realises who he is.

“Oi!” Arthur stands up and waves frantically to attract the guy’s attention. “Merlin! Over here!”

Merlin stops in his tracks, mouth open.

“Up here!” Heart pounding, Arthur hopes that Merlin remembers him, that he’ll answer Arthur’s call. He doesn’t know why; only that there is something about the shy conservator that intrigues him.

Merlin hesitates, standing stock still, while Arthur tries to make himself look as unthreatening as possible. It’s like trying to persuade a cat to come over, he realises. Or a bird of prey. The boy is aptly named! Working on that premise, Arthur fishes in his diminutive backpack, retrieving a slightly crushed packet of chocolate biscuits.

“I’ve got biscuits!” he yells, as encouragingly as he can.

His heart is in his mouth for a moment, but then, slowly but surely, Merlin starts to trudge up the steep hill, startling a couple of indignant sheep on the way until he’s standing facing Arthur at the top.

“Hey!” Arthur says, holding out the biscuit packet.

Merlin still looks like he’s going to flee, but he reaches out with a cautious hand and takes a Hob-Nob. Well, half a Hob-Nob, anyway.

“Sorry about that,” says Arthur, shrugging. “They’ve been in my backpack. Here, have the other half.”

Merlin grins, suddenly, but shakes his head, before pulling his earphones off and slinging them down into the long grass together with the rest of his detecting equipment. He takes a small nibble of the biscuit, teeth making a happy crunching sound, which is when Arthur remembers about the mutism thing.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Arthur indicates the place on the floor where he has spread out his cagoule to sit on. “I, um, I was just watching the birds. It’s a bit geeky, I know, but they’re pretty amazing, aren’t they?”

Merlin nods, his grin punching a dimple in his cheek.

“So, um. Would you care to join me? It’s not much of a picnic…”

Still clutching a quarter of a biscuit, Merlin sits gingerly on the edge of the cagoule, eyes trained on Arthur as if he might turn into a monster with fangs and claws and wings at any moment.

“It’s okay, I haven’t poisoned them, I promise.” Suddenly famished, Arthur shoves an entire biscuit into his mouth and chomps on it. The starlings are closer now, their formation splitting and re-merging in a complex choreography that he can’t believe isn’t planned. “It’s got a special name, hasn’t it, when they flock around like that? Can’t remember what it’s called, flocking around will have to do.”

Merlin points at a rapidly moving dot towards one corner of the flock; the black mass parts around it, like water parted by a stick.

“Wow, what’s that?” says Arthur. “A bird of prey or something!”

Merlin nods, nibbling at his biscuit.

“So you’re a detectorist, then, like those blokes on that telly program.” Arthur gestures towards Merlin’s discarded equipment. “Found anything today?”

Merlin nods solemnly, digging in one pocket.

“Wow, what is it?” suddenly excited, Arthur turns towards Merlin. “A coin, maybe? A button?”

With a quick shake of his head, Merlin pulls something round out of his pocket. It glints in the sunshine. It does look like a coin. He beckons to Arthur. The flush of discovery is on Arthur now, his mind spinning with the possibilities. Maybe it’s a sword pommel, or… or a bracelet? He holds out his hand. Merlin drops something into it.

It’s a ring pull from a can.

The sudden burst of delighted laughter transforms Merlin’s face, making his shoulders shake and his eyes disappear into mirthful slits.

“Well, that told me!” Arthur barks out a laugh in return. “So much for the romance of discovery!”

There’s a sudden silence, punctuated by the bleating of nearby sheep and the far-off cawing of a crow, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Arthur feels as if he could sit here all day, just sharing his coat with Merlin. A peaceful, familiar feeling settles on him.

He settles down with his back against the wall of the ruin, feeling the cold, hard stone through the fabric of his hoodie, and closes his eyes. He’s half expecting Merlin to leave, to run off now that Arthur’s not engaging him in conversation. But lifting a lazy eyelid, he can see that Merlin’s scuffed old Doctor Marten boot has not moved.

“Your colleague told me,” says Arthur, conversationally. “About your mutism, I mean. And it’s okay, I don’t mind. You don’t have to talk to me. I’m dyslexic, I know what it’s like being, you know, someone that’s not like everyone else. And I’d rather be like that than, you know, boring and stuff. I am happy just being me. So it’s okay.”

He opens one eye again. The boot is twitching, as if in response to some inner rhythm, but still Merlin hasn’t got up. In fact, Merlin is looking at him, out of the corner of his eye, his features curious, but not hostile. As their eyes meet, Merlin’s head takes on a sympathetic tilt. Or at least, Arthur likes to think that it’s sympathetic, so he ploughs on, looking away again, just in case.

“You know, it’s something I’ve thought about a lot, because I’m gay, so there are lots of reasons why I’m not the same as most people, or blokes, anyway, but then girls aren’t all the same either, and it used to bother me, being different, even though my mum said it was okay and if everyone was the same the world would be really dull. But then when you talk to anyone you realise that there’s no such thing as normal. I mean, my mate Percy, for example. He’s about five hundred feet tall, seriously, he’s like a bloody mountain. And then there’s my mate, Gwaine. He’s pansexual, which he says means nothing to do with fancying saucepans, he just doesn’t think that gender matters when he’s attracted to someone. And then there’s Lance, you’d think he was normal, until you find out that he’s into West End Musicals and can sing all the words to all the songs in The Sound Of Music. So, yeah, normal would be boring. I think so, anyway.”

He senses, rather than sees, the movement of Merlin’s head as he nods. Gratified, Arthur grins, picking idly at a few leaves of damp grass.

“Sometimes, though, sometimes I wish I was, you know? Normal, I mean. I kind of… you know, I don’t really fit, in my family. I feel like a cuckoo, sometimes. My mum and my brother are so bookish and my dad, he’s like this northern encyclopedia, and then there’s me. Dyslexic, sporty me. It’s weird, isn’t it? Genetics, I mean. God.”

He’s gabbling, he knows he is, but there’s something about this boy and his high cheekbones and fey ears and wide grins that invites confidences.

They’re quiet for a moment. Arthur’s heart is yammering in his ribcage. He edges a little closer to Merlin, feeling greatly daring, and places his hand over Merlin’s. It’s cold to the touch, but Merlin doesn’t move away.

“I’d like to see you again,” whispers Arthur, watching closely.

Merlin turns inquisitive, bright eyes on him and Arthur holds his breath. He releases it when Merlin nods, and a sudden shy smiles punches a tiny dimple into the crease by the side of Merlin's mouth.

Closing his eyes, Arthur surges forward and presses his lips briefly to Merlin’s. They’re warm and soft against his mouth. He lingers for a moment, eyes fluttering closed. Merlin doesn't pull away. The warmth of Merlin's mouth on his is like a promise, sweet and gentle as the touch of sunlight on his skin. Arthur wants it to last forever.

But a  tinny sound from his wrist makes him jump, interrupting the moment. Damn his watch. Damn everything. It’s already two o’ clock. He was meant to meet Kay at one. Damn Kay!

“I’ve got to go,” he says, breathless with daring, heart pounding twenty to the dozen. He scrambles to his feet, pulling up his coat, and he’s going to run away, because he couldn’t bear it if Merlin ran off first, but at least this way Merlin will be sure of Arthur’s intentions. “I’ll meet you here. Next Saturday?”

Merlin shakes his head.

“The week after?”

Arthur's rewarded for his persistence with another smile and a nod. Exhilarated, he grins back. 

“Unlock your phone. I’ll put my number in. You can text me and then I’ll have yours.” He grabs Merlin’s proffered phone and types his name.

“Eleven a.m., okay?”

Arthur takes Merlin’s still-broadening smile as an affirmative. After checking his watch, Arthur dashes back to his bike, feeling lighter than air. Kay will be furious; he’s late for their rendezvous, the library is closed, but he can make it up to his brother, he knows he can. Kay will understand.

Two weeks.

Arthur can’t wait.

A few minutes after he gets home— accompanied by a monosyllabic, sulky Kay— his phone beeps.

 

 

> _Are you always this bossy?_

They’re the first words that Merlin has given him, and they lend him a sense of triumph that makes warmth steal up his cheeks. He realises that he’s smiling as he stores the number under MD (for metal detector, so if his Dad comes snooping, he won't twig who it really is), and types.

 

 

> _Huh. Are u alsyway this chekey ;)_

The reply comes a few seconds later.

 

 

> _Only with good-looking prats. :D_

Good-looking. Merlin thinks he’s good-looking. Arthur can’t help it. A triumphant smile tugs at his lips.

“What are you grinning at?” Kay’s staring at him suspiciously as he toes off his trainers.

“Nothing,” says Arthur, shrugging. “Lance being a twat, as usual. That’s all.”

 

 ***

__

 

_***_

_For a terrifying moment, Merlin’s back inside the cupboard. He’s fifteen years old again. Biting his lip, he hides behind a crate of old outgrown school shoes. He hugs his legs. They barely fit in this tiny space. His pulse thunders. He wills it to be quiet._

Be quiet _, his mother had said._ Quieter than a mouse. _Silent, he peeps wide-eyed through the gap between the door and the frame._

_There’s a woman there, a bloke in leathers an ominous presence by her side. They’re clad in black from head to toe, faces hidden behind balaclavas. As he cowers in the cupboard, the man speaks. His voice deepens and flows like honey around the door, a black cloud of magic laced with the taint of malice. It’s going to get him._

_Merlin’s heart pounds in terror, and he opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. He scrabbles to the back of the cupboard, hands scrambling for a weapon. Anything will do._

_A dragon writhes around each of their arms, its maw gaping and glowing with a piercing white light that is tinged with amber. Its exhalations taste like sulphur and anger and dread. It keens, the sound piercing Merlin’s head. The dragon’s fire pulses from its mouth in sick white and orange waves. It’s looking for something. Him. It’s looking for Merlin. It mustn’t find him!_

_His hands are clammy and his heart hammers. He fights to control his own magic, hiding it in the tiny imaginary box, silently locking it away. With a deafening roar, the terrible creature grows and grows, filling his field of vision._

_Hunith screams and the world turns red..._

_***_

Abruptly, Merlin’s eyes flick open, and he blinks, heart pounding. He’s in his tiny room, in the attic above Gaius’s house. Safe. The monotonous drone of traffic past his window is the only sound.

His face is wet.

He has never spoken of it. Not that night, not his recurring nightmare. Not to anyone.

 _Keep quiet,_ she had said. _Quiet as a mouse._

He keeps trust with his mother, even now.

But Nimueh… his so-called therapist… Nimueh wants to know. Oh, yes. He can sense it in the too-eager probe of her questioning, however gently she tries to pitch her voice.

It’s always like this, the night before an appointment with her. Always the dreams and the terror, as if reminding him why he is broken, why he needs her help. But he cannot break trust with his mother. He will not. Besides which, it is the school who have foisted her on him, forced him to sit through those pointless therapy sessions. It isn’t his choice. He does not trust her and he never will.

***

_...iron meteorite... found by local farmer, 1896..._

_***_

Later that day, Merlin is stuck in Nimueh’s surgery as she paces around behind him. He can’t see her; she stands behind his chair, but an itch behind his shoulder-blades tells him that her eyes are trained on his back.

“So. My silent one. Have you been getting on all right at school?” she says.

She always starts like this; voice pitched sweet and low, questions appropriate, seemingly kind and helpful. Trying to suck him in. But he’s not falling for it. There’s something about her—an aura, well disguised and just on the edge of Merlin’s ability to sense it.

Magic.

“Are their accommodations helping you?” Nimueh adds.

She wants something from him. He doesn’t know what it is, but he does have an inkling, because these therapy sessions only started after the educational psychologist read his journal entry about the dragon. So, instead of answering, he lifts a non-committal eyebrow. It’s weird how he can feel the frustration that’s building in her when he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know how he feels it. He just does.

 _Quieter than a mouse._ And earlier: _Don’t speak to anyone you don’t trust. Promise me, Merlin._

 _I promise, Mum,_ he says in the silence of his mind, and he nods again, attention partly on his therapist, partly on the fuzzy, lingering aftermath of his nightmare, and more than half far away in the countryside with the birds and the insects and his metal detector and Arthur.

They have settled into a pattern, him and Arthur, all through that long, drizzly autumn. Arthur doesn’t question Merlin’s need to comb the ground with his detector, never asks him what he’s looking for. He doesn’t seem to mind that Merlin still doesn’t speak. In fact, they’ve spent much of the time, when Merlin’s not searching for treasure, with their faces glued together, making out in the drizzle at the foot of the ruined chapel.

At the same time, Merlin knows that he is falling further and further. He only needs to glance at Arthur’s damp, dark-gold drizzle-flecked hair, at the infectious mischief in Arthur’s bright smile, for a deep ache to lodge and swell in his ribcage, filling him with a curious warmth that he can’t imagine ever living without. But it’s quite ridiculous, really, that they’ve been seeing each other for weeks now, and in all that time he’s never managed to speak to Arthur. Of course, he hasn’t not spoken to anyone else, either, apart from Gaius. Especially Nimueh. But there’s a good reason for that. He’s more than fifty percent convinced that she’s a fraud, and he can’t avoid her, but he doesn’t have to speak to her.

“I can’t help feeling that you’re regressing.” She scribbles in her notebook, pencil making a scratching noise on the paper. _Talk to me,_ her magic says. There’s a seductive note to it, one that compels him to speak, to let it all out, because it will make him feel so much better.

Bullshit.

Instead, Merlin swallows and shakes his head, looking up at the window, with its view out over the landscape, up at a huge overarching sky laden with clouds.

“Look, I know it feels like an insurmountable hurdle for you sometimes.” She sits on the chair opposite him, taps her teeth with the end of her pencil, a nonchalant gesture that belies the tension that screams at him from the taut set of her shoulders. “But really it is just as simple as opening your mouth and letting sounds come out.”

But it’s not that simple; it really isn’t. It hasn’t been, not for a long time, not since that night of terror...

He swallows again, throat suddenly tight. To banish the sudden dark sadness that threatens to overwhelm him, he summons a vision of Arthur into his head. Arthur laughing and whizzing down the hill on his bike, calling over his shoulder at Merlin until he lands in a tangled heap on the grass. Dork. Arthur looking at a find with him, laughing with him at the sundry collection of bottle-tops and coke cans and coat-hangers that Merlin’s unearthed in the past few weeks. Laughing, always laughing, bright and infectious, warm and golden like sunlight and honeyed flapjacks and Victoria sponge cake straight out of the oven.

“What about these... hallucinations of yours?” Nimueh leans forward, elbows upon her knees, her eyes suddenly fixed on him, bright and eager.

Merlin clamps his lips together and shakes his head, wishing that he had never written a word about Kilgharrah in that bloody journal.

“Think about the dragon,” she instructs. “Tell me about it. Where is it now? How does it speak to you? Where does it go?”

There are many things that Merlin could tell her about Kilgharrah— their mental connection, the wily old lizard’s love of ball sports, its ridiculously convoluted speech patterns. About how, when Kilgharrah’s not watching football disguised as a drone, mostly successful at hiding himself unless he disagrees with the referee’s decision, he hides in a remote warehouse, cloaked in magic.

But no. Merlin will not give Kilgharrah away to some inquisitive witch posing as a qualified therapist. So he thinks of Arthur instead, of the thrill that races through his veins when they kiss, of the camaraderie between them when they search across the lonely earth for the treasures of the past, and he smiles.

“I can’t help you if you don’t cooperate,” she warns. “And then I will have to report to the school that you are still not ready to complete your A levels. Is that what you want?”

Her threats are not empty; she could prevent him from going back to school. But he will not give her what she wants. If it comes to it, he’ll leave school for good, and spend all his time out on the Somerset Levels instead.

Anyway, it’s going to get even better soon, Merlin can feel it in his bones. There’s something out there in marshes, buried in the peat or hidden at the edge of a causeway; it’s calling to him. And he’s going to find it. Him and Arthur. Kilgharrah’s right about that, at any rate.

“Merlin?” says Nimueh, sharply. “Is that what you want?”

He swivels his head back to face her and shrugs. He will speak soon, he will. But not to her. He is saving his words. He wants to say the right ones, to the right person.

At the right time.

Until then, he’ll keep looking and waiting. For a sign. He’ll know when it is time, he is sure.

***

_...to trace the spare lines of those cheekbones, the delicate curl of the man’s hairs as they graze the back of his neck..._

_***_

 

Morgana wakes to the sound of shouting, of scurrying footsteps hastening along corridors. Curious, she pulls the counterpane from her body and curls up to get out of bed. The clock flashes at her—it’s already eight-fifteen! Where is Eira? She should be here by now, helping Morgana with her hair and her plans for the day.

There’s a dark brown stain on the front of her gown. She stares at it, mesmerised. How odd; she isn’t injured, but it looks like blood. Blooded fingerprints litter her counterpane. Is it her period?

“Eira?” she calls, heading to her chest of drawers and hastily pulling on some clothes. “Eira, I need to change my bedclothes.” She pads into her bathroom to wash. Her pallid reflection stares back out at her, blank-eyed and with dark rims beneath. She slept well last night, although her dreams were muddled and her head felt fuzzy this morning. She rubs at her bare wrist. How odd. The bracelet is gone, but she doesn’t remember taking it off.

Clad only in a pair of slacks and a plain polo-neck, she pads barefoot over to her dressing table to check. Yes, the bracelet is there, snug in its box. Perhaps it fell from her wrist and Eira put it away for her?

There’s a sudden loud knocking at her door.

“Eira?” she calls, walking over to open it. But it’s not Eira standing there. “Where’s—?”

“Your Highness.” Leon, bless him, is wringing his hands, distress plain upon his face.

“Leon, whatever is the matter? Where is Eira?” Morgana peers out into the corridor, as if Eira might be approaching from either direction, but all she sees are distressed-looking servants, scurrying here and there with pale, unhappy faces.

“My lady, I am sorry. Something terrible has happened.” Leon bites his lip and bows low. “I’m so sorry. Eira…”

“What is it?” says Morgana sharply. “Spit it out, Leon.”

“It’s Eira.” Leon’s expression is grave, his jaw tense. “Eira has—I’m so sorry. She’s dead, my lady.”

“What?” Morgana gasps, reaching automatically for the key around her neck. “How? But she wasn’t ill, I would have—”

“My lady.”

“She was so full of life! I mean, she had plans for— she had a boyfriend! She was looking forward to—” Morgana’s words caught in her throat, and she started to tremble, the shock making her legs suddenly weak. “She was—”

“My lady, I’m so sorry. It’s— the police have been called. They think—” He’s staring at her, his eyes round and distressed. He must be stressed, to stray beyond the bounds of protocol so far as to interrupt her.

“What?” she whispers, although a small and frightened part of her is screaming that she already knows. “What is it, Leon?”

“I’m so sorry.” He bows. “They think— they think it’s murder.”

***

***

It’s one of those rare winter days where the sky describes a perfect blue dome above their heads. Pale wisps of cloud scurry across the sky, in a hurry to get further east.

The weather is fine for sketching; Arthur just needs a clothes peg to hold his the pages of his sketchbook. He assumes his favourite position beneath an ancient oak tree, sketching whatever takes his fancy; the texture of the bark is a particular favourite, but so is the distant finger of the Tor. Closer in, the fast-flowing waters of the River Tone, swollen by recent rainfall, swirl and gurgle past his feet, the smooth surface marred by ripples and the occasional ring as a fish searches for flies. A pleasantly earthy aroma lingers over the place. It’s a peaceful scene, and Arthur relishes the feeling of freedom that it brings him.

Merlin’s ears are hidden beneath his detector’s earphones as he scans this way and that, seemingly at random.

“I never know how you know where to go with that thing,” says Arthur.

Merlin doesn’t even look up; presumably he can’t hear a thing. It’s kind of liberating, really. Arthur can say what he likes, letting his hand roam freely across the paper while he chats.

“You’re very easy to talk to, you know.” Arthur sighs. “It’s weird how nice it is, talking to someone who’s not actually listening to you. Or is that just me? I must be some kind of weirdo, I suppose.”

There’s a sudden plop, down by the water. Arthur’s head swivels, trying to identify its source. His eyes are drawn to a sudden movement. There! Plain as you like, head breaking the surface of the water. An otter! It regards Arthur for a moment or two as if wondering what the hell he was doing there, then abruptly dives, tail breaking out of the water for just a second before disappearing, leaving only a ripple mark.

“Did you see that?” Arthur points, mouth open. “Merlin? Merlin! Otter! There!”

Merlin turns at that moment and follows Arthur’s pointing finger, then shrugs with a rueful grin.

“It was an otter, I swear!” Arthur’s on his feet, jumping up and down with excitement.

Sadly, the otter doesn’t make a reappearance, but Arthur draws it from memory anyway. He depicts it drifting unconcerned in the current with an oblivious Merlin on the riverbank. It’s difficult to get the details right, so he starts the composition several times, absorbed in the task even as his fingers grow colder and he starts to develop cramp in his shoulders. He ignores it, sketching in the distant ruin on top of Burrow Mump.

“It’s a war memorial, you know,” he says apropos of nothing. “Burrow Mump, I mean. But it doesn’t have any names on it.”

Merlin doesn’t seem to be listening; he’s just stopped, and is gliding back and forth over the same spot with a slight frown marring his forehead.

“It’s amazing, when you think about it. Every village in the land sent some sons to fight in the wars. No community is unaffected. I found my Great-Grandad’s name on a war memorial once, you know. Gave me a proper turn, it did. I’d like to find out more about him. Private Wildforest, I mean. My Dad’s worse than useless; he doesn’t know anything about him.”

It was a weird occasion, weirder than Arthur had let on at the time. They’d been on a school trip to Tintagel, back in Year Eleven. Most of the kids had been busily running down to see the sea cliffs and the ruined castle, but Arthur had paused to sketch the war memorial, struck by its austere appearance and the faded beauty of the stone. Above it was a plain Celtic cross, in pale granite. The memorial was inscribed with the message: “Remember these men of Tintagel, who died whilst serving their King and Country, in the Great War of 1914 to 1918”. Followed by a list of names, longer than it had any right to be, for a village that small. How sad, for such a tiny community to lose so many of its men. The scars of their loss took generations to heal. And so it would be repeated throughout the world, if people could not put aside their differences.

And that’s when Arthur spotted the name: at the end of the list, after Richards, P, had been the name Wildforest, J., etched into the same stone. His own name! Gaping, Arthur had run over to trace his finger over the lettering. Could this be a relative of his, perhaps? A distant great, great uncle? But he thought all the Wildforests came from Yorkshire. What was one doing here, in Cornwall?

Even stranger, the name above that of the hapless Richards, P, was another familiar surname.

Pendragon, C.

Arthur had shivered at the thought that his ancestor might be acquainted with the forebears of the current dictator. But when he returned from the trip, his father would not acknowledge any such possibility.

“Yeah,” says Arthur, a sudden thought striking him as he relates this tale to Merlin. “Come to think of it, that’s when my dad started being all weird about me going out. Parents, huh?”

When he looks up, Merlin’s looking at him, a sad expression in his eyes that Arthur can’t interpret.

Arthur shrugs, and turns back to his notebook.

***

***

Thankfully, the police are kind, but Morgana can’t help the fear that makes her voice tremble and her hands shake when she gives her testimony.

“I completely understand if you are scared, Your Highness,” says Sergeant Isolde McCormack soothingly, scribbling something in her notebook. She taps the book with her pen, then looks up at Morgana with a quizzical frown. “I promise that the extra security that we are introducing into the palace will keep you physically safe. But of course, your emotional wellbeing is also important. Is there someone that you can talk to— a therapist, perhaps? Or else, I can organise counselling…”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” whispers Morgana. “I’m fine.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, you have had a terrible shock. I would advise—”

“I said, I’m fine,” snaps Morgana, not wishing this conversation to go on any further. Morgause will help her. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone else, not about the creeping terror that makes her skin pebble and her palms clammy with sweat.

She doesn’t dare name it, this terror. No, it would be best to talk to Morgause, and soon.

“Very well, Your Highness.” Isolde bows and takes her leave.

Alone again, Morgana contemplates herself in the mirror. She must visit Morgause soon. She fears the bracelet, fears what it does to her memory. It must be the bracelet that makes her forget things. There’s something about it… it leaves her with a terrible emptiness that grows each time she puts it on. There must be another way. Surely Morgause could give her something else to help with her nightmares?

Suddenly, amid her jumbled worrying, a thought springs into her head of cool clever fingers and a sweet smile that always soothed her. Of course! Gwen would help her. And Gwen knows all about metals.

Gwen will know what to do. She must go and visit Gwen.

Thus decided, she sweeps the black velvet box into her favourite Jenny Packham clutch and stands, grabbing her mobile from the dressing table. With practiced thumbs, she searches for Gwen’s number.

***

***

The first time Merlin finds something significant with Arthur is on a late autumn day. The wind has taken most of the leaves. It buffets Merlin’s hair and the skin on his face, finding tiny gaps in his clothes to make him shiver. He’s long since lost all feeling in his fingers, but a fizz of premonition prevents him from giving up.

A sudden gust sends a group of crows squawking their protests. A rare scrap of blue sky punches a gap in the lowering clouds. Arthur’s quiet, sitting under the bare branches of an old oak, sketching something. Merlin’s not sure what.

Merlin shivers, this time not from the cold. He can sense something calling to him, he’s sure of it. He scans the ground with his detector, its ring held low and flat, just above the blades of grass. He’s been over this area before, but still something nags at him about it. He tucks his earphones down low and narrows his focus. There! There’s something hidden in the soil here, he’s sure of it.

Rummaging in his rucksack, he retrieves a trowel and starts to scrabble at the earth. He digs at a tussock. The grass roots tear, making a ripping noise as if protesting being dislodged. There’s been plenty of rain recently; the soil clumps thickly on the tool, sticky and black. There’s something primordial about it, about the way the grains slide between his fingertips as he probes ever deeper.

“Have you found something? Wow! I bet it’s something amazing.” Arthur leaves the shelter of his tree and comes to help, his enthusiasm as sudden and disarming as it had been the first time they met. “Maybe it’s Roman! Or… or Anglo Saxon! Or perhaps it’s earlier, could be Iron Age…”

He chatters on, his excitement making his voice crack. Merlin looks at him and grins as his fingers close on something different, alien in its hardness. He points, digs around it with his trowel. Arthur joins in, burying his hands in the earth and scraping like a dog digging for rabbits.

Soon the object is prominent, sticking out of the ground. Merlin pauses to take a photo with his phone, his fingers leaving muddy prints on the screen. He doesn’t care. His heart is hammering, fast. There’s something here. Something huge. Here it has lain, who knows how long for? Just waiting for this moment, for Merlin to discover its secrets. Anticipation surges like a drug through his veins. The romance of discovery never gets old.

Arthur feels it too. Merlin can see it in the bright glint of his eyes, the pink spots on his cheeks, the incredulous smile. It’s been worth it. Worth getting wet this morning, worth every minute spent scanning the soil with fingers numb from cold. Worth any discomfort, just to see that rapt expression on Arthur’s face and know that he’s the one that put it there.

Silently, carefully, he tugs at the object. It resists his grip, but there’s a glint of yellow peeping wetly at him through the mud. He wipes it with a finger. A golden trail emerges in the wake of his hand. He can’t believe what he’s feeling, what he’s seeing. With renewed energy, he digs at the earth around it, excavating a deeper hole so as not to damage it.

The shape is unmistakable: that of a dragon. Of course, Merlin has an advantage; not only can he feel it beneath his fingers, he can _See_ it, using the _Sight_ , now that he has touched it, and as he listens it calls to him with Kilgharrah’s voice.

“Holy fuck,” breathes Arthur, eyes round and shining.

Elated, Merlin breathes on the metal protruding from the ground. It fogs, and shines when he buffs it with his sleeve. He lets out a surprised chuckle and looks up at Arthur. Their eyes meet.

“Fuck!” Merlin bites his lip as his fingers probe the dragon’s edges and encounter a blunt, round object the size of a football. He barks out a surprised laugh. “Fuck!”

“Jesus!” Arthur stares at him, his mouth a circle of shock. He’s not looking at the ground any more; his surprise is focused on Merlin’s face, on his mouth and eyes, and there’s a dreamy sort of joy to it that makes his eyes sparkle in the waning light. “Merlin, do you realise that’s the first word I’ve ever heard you say?”

“There’s a first time for everything.” Merlin shrugs and flashes a smile at Arthur, feeling a sudden, ridiculous burst of happiness at how absurdly easy it has been to break his silence with an expletive. He tugs gently at the artefact again, hands trembling. To his surprise, it comes free easily from the soil, with only a sigh of suction as the mud oozes back into the hole it leaves.

“What is it?” says Arthur, kneeling on the ground without a care for getting his trousers muddy.

It’s a round hemisphere, fitting neatly between Arthur’s hands, with the dragon forming a series of lumps upon the top. There are gaps at the front that betray its true nature.

“It’s a helmet,” says Merlin. He feels like jumping up and down, or dancing, or something, because he’s breathing hard as if he’s been running, and his fingers are cold, but he doesn’t care, because holy crap! “Holy crap! It’s a helmet! Oh my God! I’ve never found a helmet before! Sweet Jesus! We should mark where we found it and come back to dig around a bit more. There could be other stuff here.”

“Wow.” Arthur’s smile widens.

“Yeah, it’s amazing!” says Merlin, fingers gentling the helmet, carefully sliding across it, as a clod of earth drops from it here, a blade of grass there. “We need to take it back to the museum. And I'll have to inform the landowner... My uncle will be made up! Now, I can’t let it get damaged on the way.”

He bites his lip, because he cant stop chattering. It’s like a dam has broken inside him, somehow. All the pent up words that he has been storing want to burst their way out.

“It’s got gold on it— that means it must have belonged to someone really important.” Merlin lays the object gently upon the soil and rummages in his backpack for something to wrap it in. Pulling out some old bubble wrap and a towel, he gently wipes at the object. “But there’s a dent in the front. Maybe he got that in battle? God, can you imagine what it must have been like? This great and mighty warrior, clad in the colour of the sun— he must have shone so bright…”

“Here, let me help you.” Arthur’s eyes are suspiciously bright as he stares at Merlin. “Merlin, are you always like this when you—”

“Okay!” Merlin interrupts Arthur, because he’s going to say something about Merlin talking, Merlin can tell. Something about how Merlin went from zero to a million in the space of one second. But this feeling of ease that he’s got with Arthur is so new and fragile, he doesn’t want to jinx it. Neither does he want to explain why, because that might kill his newfound confidence and make him clam up again. It’s so liberating, finally being able to talk to Arthur, but he knows he could lose it again horribly easily— sometimes he can’t even talk to Gaius. So he interrupts instead, focusing on the object rather than his newfound garrulousness. “Okay, okay!” Merlin holds the object firmly between both hands. “Here, don’t try to get the soil off, it’s protected it for years until now. We need to get it into the lab…”

Thankfully, Arthur gets the hint. Under Merlin’s direction, Arthur’s hands work deftly to secure the towel and bubble wrap with sellotape. But something charges the air between them, something that reveals itself in the occasional lazy flip of Arthur’s eyes across Merlin’s face, or the regularity with which their hands brush, making Merlin’s skin tingle and his heart jump.

***

***

 

Arthur’s so excited about the find and about the sudden startling revelation of Merlin’s fucking _voice_ that he forgets that he’s supposed to be avoiding Glastonbury. Well, it’s not so much that he forgets, as that he thinks the restriction is stupid in the first place. After all, none of his friends have their freedoms curtailed in such a way. Besides which, he doesn’t want to let on to Merlin that he’s only seventeen and that his dad won’t let him do something as simple as get a bus into town and go to the museum. It’s not like he’s doing drugs or anything, not like some of the other Year Thirteens, who had been caught doing Special K— which Gwaine had to explain is not some kind of breakfast cereal— and expelled.

So he accompanies Merlin on the bus and walks into the lab with him. His knees are still damp from the mud, and his hands are freezing, but the elation and curiosity that he feels are overwhelming.

Plus, there’s the other thing, the surprise and triumph of which gives Arthur goosebumps when he thinks about it, because Merlin spoke to him. Merlin _trusts_ him. Forget getting an A* at his Art GCSE: his pride at this new achievement might actually make him explode. And on top of that, Merlin’s voice is fucking gorgeous. By turns melodic and sly, mellifluous and rich with humour, it is an instrument that Merlin plays well.

Not for the first time, he wonders what horror can have happened to Merlin to silence him. But he can’t bring himself to ask, right now; he doesn’t want to spoil the delicate novelty of being able to communicate like this.

“Is it always like this when you find stuff?” he whispers instead to Merlin as they wait for the lift down to the basement where his uncle works.

“Pretty much.” Merlin grins at him, happiness making his eyes sparkle and disappear behind his cheeks in a crinkly spiderweb of delight.

It’s contagious, Merlin’s smile. It fills Arthur with a warmth that threatens to spill over into laughter. He contents himself with smiling back, trying not to let his expression get too dopey. His mouth opens, but before he can say anything stupid they’re outside the lab and Merlin is typing in the key code.

“Uncle? Uncle! Look what I have brought for you!” Merlin strides through the lab door, donning a crisp, white coat that looks like something out of Casualty.

An elderly man with wispy white hair and crisp-looking lab coat of his own looks up and his face lights up. “Merlin, dear boy. Come in, come in!”

“It’s a helmet, Uncle, look!” Merlin describes the find even as his uncle unwraps it, tutting a little bit at the difficulty of getting through the sellotape with his fingernails.

Arthur hangs back in the doorway, hovering nervously, knowing that he probably doesn’t have authorization to be here. But the figure that greets Merlin beckons him in. So Arthur steps through the door, trying to appear nonchalant even as he gazes wide-eyed at the clean-looking walls and working spaces littered with curious utensils.

“Hello,” says the man. “Do come in! Don’t stand on ceremony, dear boy! I’m Gaius. You must be a friend of my great-nephew here. What’s your name?”

“Arthur.” Arthur grabs the man’s proffered hand and shakes it. “Arthur Wildforest.”

“Wildforest?” Gaius steps back and his gaze flicks from Arthur to Merlin and back, open-mouthed. It’s such an odd reaction that Arthur frowns back at him. “Strange name...” His voice peters off as he takes a step or two backwards and fetches up against a workbench.

“Are you all right, uncle?” Merlin says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Perfectly all right.” But the elderly man grabs something out of his pocket— a ventolin inhaler, by the look of it— and sucks at it noisily before muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Wildforest, good lord.”

“Here, sit down.” Stepping forward, Arthur guides Gaius to a chair and pats him on the back. He tells himself that Gaius’s sudden indisposition must be down to the excitement from Merlin’s find or something.

“Have you been taking your preventers, Uncle?” Merlin fusses around the old man like a mother hen. “You know what the doctor said. And you need to take your steroids too. If you’ve been missing doses again…”

“I’m fine, Merlin.” Gaius waves a hand as if trying to bat Merlin away. “Don’t fuss.”

Merlin ignores him, pushing the old man’s body forward to insert a cushion behind him, and talking nineteen to the dozen while he assembles a drink of water.

“And you know you’ve got to eat better.” Merlin ignores him. “A sandwich from the museum cafe isn’t a proper meal. Did you have breakfast? You shouldn’t skip it, you know…”

“I’m quite all right,” wheezes Gaius. “It’s asthma, not angina. Good lord.”

“But you’re…”

Arthur gets it, he really does, that Merlin doesn’t want his uncle to be ill. Arthur always feels stressed when his mum is poorly; it seems wrong, somehow. But can’t Merlin see that he’s making things worse?

“For heaven’s sake, Merlin,” says Arthur, taking the full water glass from Merlin’s hand before he drops it on his uncle’s lap. “Will you shut up for just one second?”

Instantly, two faces swivel towards Arthur: Gaius’s shocked and full of opprobrium, the other surprised but delighted.

Puzzled at their reaction, Arthur frowns back. “What’s the matter?”

“You told me to shut up!” said Merlin. A joyful smile creeps over his face and his eyes shine with a suspicious brilliance. “No one ever does that!”

Arthur’s hand flies to his mouth. Selective mutism. Oh, shit. He’s just gone and told a guy with a psychological disorder that prevents him from speaking when anxious to _shut up_.

“The mutism! Fuck, I forgot.” A shameful heat creeps up Arthur’s cheeks and threatens to overwhelm his forehead. “Fuck, I’m such an idiot!”

“No, don’t say that.” Merlin shakes his head. A mischievous dimple pops into the crease at the corner of his mouth. “No one tells me to shut up. They all walk on eggshells around me the whole time. And I know that once I’m comfortable with someone and enthusiastic about something, sometimes I just gab on and on. It’s like I’m either on or off, and I have no brakes, you see, but you… you told me to shut up, and it’s natural and you think of me as _normal_ , and I think… I think… it’s brilliant.”

Well, Arthur can certainly appreciate someone being happy to be thought of as normal. They’re still gazing at each other, and Arthur guesses that he might have gone a bit dopey-eyed, because Gaius chooses that moment to cough again, and it doesn’t sound like a proper asthmatic cough this time, but rather one of those *ahem*-type put-on coughs that people do for attention.

“Ahem. Well, are we going to look at this helmet, then, or what?” says Gaius. He shuffles towards the workbench and pulls some reading glasses out of his lapel pocket. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

There’s something wary in the set of Gaius’s shoulders as he hunches over the artefact. Arthur’s not sure why, but he gets the feeling that he’s not wanted here. Arthur thinks morose thoughts about overprotective and disapproving great-uncles, and wonders if Gaius even knows that his great-nephew is gay.

Well, Arthur’s not going to let some cranky old conservator deter him from spending time with Merlin. He sits on Gaius’s recently-vacated chair and pulls out his sketchbook, while Gaius and Merlin exchange ideas about the provenance and composition of the structure of the helmet, using language that Arthur can’t readily follow. He’s feeling bored and unwanted, and there is no signal down here in the basement, so he sketches Merlin’s fingers grasping an artist’s paintbrush, while Merlin excitedly smears a line over the shine of the helmet’s crown and comments about how unrusted it is.

“Extraordinary preservation of this nose-guard!” he’s saying. “It’s not even slightly tarnished.”

“Indeed.” Gaius peers down his nose. “The Sutton Hoo helmet, as you know, was retrieved in several pieces, all greatly rusted. We will need to be careful to avoid exposing it to air for too long. It will start to corrode very quickly.”

“It’s amazing–it’s even better than the Coppergate helmet.” Merlin’s eyes shine, bright with enthusiasm. “And the preservation–it’s like _magic_! Look at this goldwork on the comb! Would it have been crested?”

“Almost certainly, Merlin.” Gaius beams back. “And the detailing on the iron plates implies the wings of a dragon. An extraordinary find! We’ll need to store it in moist nitrogen, I would say. I must phone Annis at the British Museum. Dear me, my boy!”

“The British Museum?” Merlin’s faced creases and his eyes disappear almost entirely. He makes a noise half way between a whoop and a guffaw. “Something I found! At the British Museum! Who would ever have known? Mum would have been over the moon!” He bends over the find again, clucking at oddly named parts.

This change in Merlin— from silent to talkative— is as dramatic as if a switch has been flicked, a personality-magnifying switch. Arthur’s already familiar with nerdy Merlin; with focused Merlin; with curious Merlin, who loves the outdoors. His memory has mapped the lines of Merlin’s rapt face when he concentrates his search, on whatever happens in his headphones that heralds the proximity of something metallic and precious. But this Merlin— this animated Merlin with his pink cheeks and his clever fingers, chattering about cheek guards and skull-caps, and drawing comparisons with other Dark Ages finds…. this Merlin, carefully picking at the dirt and grime that surrounds the object... this Merlin is a revelation. As Arthur watches, a warm ache starts deep in his gut and swells to fill his rib cage. He doesn’t have a name for it, this feeling, but it’s sort of good and bad at the same time. Painful but also addicting. It makes him long for something, he doesn’t know what exactly. Every so often, Merlin looks up at him, a flash of blue over the top of his safety glasses, and grins. It makes little fireworks ping in Arthur’s belly.

With all this excitement, he’s off his guard when Merlin gives in to the call of nature and leaves the lab to go to the loo. He’s still shading a sketch of Merlin’s face when he realises that Gaius is staring at him. He looks up enquiringly.

“So, Arthur Wildforest.” Gaius’s face is grave, his eyebrows raised. “We need to talk.”

Puzzled, Arthur puts his head on one side. “Sorry?”

“You.” Gaius points at him with a trowel. “You are in danger, coming here. And you are endangering my nephew. You must leave immediately and keep away.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your fos— Hector has not told you yet, then.” Gaius sighs and shakes his head. “Foolish man.”

“You know my father?”

“Your father?” Gaius looks at him oddly for a moment, before his expression clears. “Oh, you mean Hector!”

“Yes, Hector!” Arthur massages his temples. His head is throbbing. “Hector Wildforest! My Dad! Who else would I mean?”

Gaius flinches and looks away.

“What’s going on!” Fury makes Arthur’s heart race, because this stubborn old goat knows something, something about Arthur, and he won’t bloody say anything. “What do you know?”

It’s not as if Arthur hasn’t suspected that there’s something odd about his family, what with Kay being the spitting image of his father, whereas Arthur… well. Not so much. He’s always felt like a bit of a cuckoo. But these hints that Gaius drops are just adding weight to his existing suspicions, and the frustration surges through him like fire. He feels like punching something. He bites his lip instead, staring intently at Gaius, willing him to come clean.

“You should know the truth, Arthur.” Gaius sighs.

“The truth about what?”

Gaius’s eyebrow climbs even higher as he contemplates Arthur through his spectacles, as if he were one of the ancient objects in his care.

“It is not my place,” he says, finally. “All I can say… all I can say for sure… is that you must keep away from my nephew. For his safety, and even more so for yours. You mustn’t be with him. You must not contact him. Above all, you can’t be _seen_ with him.”

“What do you mean?” cries Arthur, leaping to his feet so fast that the chair scrapes back against the wall with a bang. “Why won’t anyone tell me anything?”

“Your presence isn’t authorised here.” Gaius reaches for a phone. “I’m going to call security. I expect you to be gone before they get here.”

“But…”

“For God’s sake, boy!” There’s a tremor in Gaius’s voice and his colour has risen. He coughs again, a rattling cough that wracks his slight frame, and points at the door even as he reaches for his inhaler. “Do you always argue like this? Just go!”

He grabs Arthur’s arm and starts to usher him towards the door of the lab, opening it with a mutter and pushing Arthur through. Arthur’s strong enough to resist, he knows he is, but he does not want to hurt this odd man whom Merlin so clearly adores, so he does as he’s told, albeit protesting all the way.

 

It is only when Arthur is stalking, furious, through the fire exit and towards the bus stop, hood turned up against the driving rain, that he works out what that tremor in Gaius’s voice had been.

Fear. What prompted it, Arthur has no idea. But Gaius is terrified of something, that is for sure.

***

***

When Arthur gets home that evening, the rain lashing at his North Face puffa jacket as he disembarks from the bus, his mind is far away, mulling over the events of the day. The headlines on the newsstands are all about some upset at Buckingham Palace, with big pictures of Morgana Pendragon plastered all over them, so he picks up a couple of copies of the free evening paper for Kay and shoves them under his jacket to keep them dry.

Kay’s got this massive crush on the princess. Not that some remote, posh beauty like that would ever look at a nerd like him. And anyway, Kay would be miserable with all those shenanigans going on at the palace all the time. He has always been the kind of nerd who is at his most comfortable with his head buried in a book. And from what Arthur has seen of Morgana Pendragon and her father, the King, they’d trample all over him. Arthur wouldn’t let that happen, of course. And neither would Finna. Over the years, Finna has made her low opinion of the king quite clear.

But a man can dream. Besides which, Arthur needs a peace offering. Pictures of Princess Morgana might do the trick.

He was meant to meet Kay in the library three hours ago, after all.

As he steps over the threshold of their home, hanging up the sodden raincoat upon the hook in the doorway, warm, dinner-y smells greet his nostrils and he suddenly realises he is famished.

He pushes through the doorway into the kitchen and opens his mouth to compliment his father on the deliciousness of his cooking, when Hector turns, brandishing a wooden spoon at Arthur with a face like thunder.

Kay turns as well, with an identical scowl. Not for the first time, Arthur thinks he and Hector are so alike when they frown, they could be, well, if not twins, certainly brothers from the same mother. Kay’s a little shorter and more slender, while Hector has salt and pepper hair, but the heavy set brown eyes, round face and sweep of mouse-brown hair, the widow’s peak and the chin dimples are identical. Which makes him feel weird. How come he looks so different?

“Where the fuck have you been?” says Kay, glowering. “Two fucking hours I waited for you.”

“Um.” Arthur shrugs. “I brought you a paper? It’s got Morgana in it?” He shoves the paper down on the table where Kay glances at it, his expression lifting a bit.

“Shit,” he says. “She looks bloody gorgeous. Upset, but gorgeous. Thanks, I suppose. But you still owe me one.” He settles down to read the paper, eyes flicking across the page. He makes it look so easy.

Arthur owes Kay a lot more than one, at the moment, but it’s okay. He’ll make it up to him.

“Sorry, bro,” he says.

Kay grunts, absorbed in the article.

“This is all very lovely,” growls Hector. He wipes his hands on his apron. “Brotherly love and all that. Very touching. But picking up a paper does not exactly account for the missing two…” He makes a show of looking at his watch “...make that three hours, does it, Arthur?” He glares at Arthur, face set and jaw working. His colour is high, and a vein is pulsing in his temple.

Uh oh. That can only mean one thing.

Big trouble.

There would be an explosion, he knew it. He just hopes that his father’s blood pressure can stand it. He swallows, fishing around in his brain for words, any words that could help defuse the situation. But the words will not come.

“Is Mum in?” he says lamely, as if Finna could protect him from the imminent scolding.

“No, lad. She’s got a late surgery. You’ll answer to me, tonight,” says Hector, removing his apron. “Kay, lad? Would you keep an eye on the pasta? Turn it right down as soon as it starts to bubble. Arthur and I need to talk.”

“What? But, Dad, I’m reading the paper, there’s been a stabbing at the pal—”

“Now, Kay,” says Hector sharply, although his eyes flicker in interest and he glances down at the headline for a second. “I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.” He picks up the paper and tucks it under his arm. “Until you’ve finished cooking.”

“Bloody old tyrant,” Kay mutters under his breath, but after this desultory show of mutiny he stands to peer at the saucepan.

Arthur flashes him a sympathetic look. “Father?” he says, looking longingly back at the bubbling pot in the kitchen as Hector leads him into the living room.

His father is skimming through the paper again as he enters, which is odd in itself, and his expression has gone from angry to more thoughtful. Arthur doesn’t think that’s necessarily an improvement.

“You’ve been lying to me, son.” To his surprise, Hector’s voice is measured and sad, rather than apoplectic. There’s an odd turn to his mouth, as if he is upset about something, or even a little bit scared. This realisation makes sweat break out on Arthur’s palms.

So this is going to be a quiet, disappointed sort of conversation. Somehow those are worse than the loud bellowing.

“Um.” Colouring, Arthur looks down at his fingers. “I’m sorry, it’s just… there’s this boy, you see. And I…”

“I know,” Hector says, his voice gravelly and vehement. “And, Arthur, I know this seems unfair to you right now. But for your own safety and protection, you _must_ keep away from him.”

“But, why? He’s not dangerous or violent, if that’s what you mean!” A vision of Merlin wielding a sword with those skinny arms of him pops into his head, and Arthur can’t help snorting out a laugh.

“I am serious, lad.” Hector’s expression darkens. “There are other types of danger out there. You’ve had a privileged upbringing. And your mother and I have protected you these seventeen years, but it’ll all be for naught if you’re found now.”

“Found by who?” cries Arthur, totally fed up with all these dark hints. “Will you stop being so damn vague? Who is this menace that you keep referring to?”

“I… I can’t tell you yet, Arthur. You will know it all, one day, I promise.” Hector shifts his bulk uncomfortably and doesn’t meet Arthur’s gaze. “Just… keep out of trouble, lad, please. For our sake. I’m...I’m very fond of you, you know that. And I’m not sure my old heart can stand it if they find you now...”

“If who find me?” asks Arthur again, his temper rising. His heart pounds, his pulse throbbing loud in his ears, making his head hurt. He runs his fingers through his hair, still damp from the rain. “What do you mean?”

“Gaius called me,” says Hector in an abrupt change of subject. “I know about his nephew. I’m sure he’s a lovely lad, Arthur, but he’s not good for you. You’re not to meet up with him any more. It’s not safe for you or for him…”

“You know Merlin’s Uncle Gaius?” Shocked, Arthur balls his fists to stop them trembling, and shoves them onto his hips. “You know him? But how? And why can’t I see him? What’s going on? Why the hell won’t anybody tell me anything?” He stops speaking because his voice is starting to shake, and there’s a moment where his anger makes shameful tears start in his eyes. Sheer frustration at the injustice of the situation heats his face and makes his legs tremble. He draws a shaky breath. “I’m seventeen, father! I’m not a baby any more!”

“That’s enough, Arthur.” Hector’s mouth settles into a thin, stubborn line, and he shakes his head. “You’re not an adult yet, and while you’re still my responsibility, you will do what I say. Do you understand?”

“I don’t bloody care!” Fury surges like a drug through Arthur’s pumping veins. He stands square to his father and places a hand upon his chest. “Stop treating me like a fucking child.”

“Arthur,” warns Hector. “I will ground you again if—”

“I’m seeing him again, and that’s that. What are you going to do? Shackle me? I’ll call the police. I know my rights.”

Fuck that. Arthur’s had enough of being pushed around by cranky old men who won’t tell him what the fuck is going on. First Gaius, and now Hector, trying to stop him from seeing Merlin and refusing to tell him why. Well, they can bloody well screw themselves.

He and Merlin have a connection, something that makes his chest feel lighter and lifts his mood, and he’s damned if he’s going to let these know-it-all, stern-faced old bastards ruin his life.

Plus, he’s not going to lose Merlin now. Not when Merlin has just started to open up to him. He speaks to Arthur. He _trusts_ Arthur.

Arthur will find a way to see Merlin and to hell with the consequences.

He stalks out of the room, slamming the door so hard it rattles.

***

_…“Hey!” Arthur says, holding out the biscuit packet…._

***

Dr Guinevere Smith strolls through the great Hintze Hall, the huge vaulted space that greets people as they enter of the Natural History Museum, her feet tapping quietly on the stone floor as she approaches her new display.

She loves the museum like this, all empty and echoey, like it is first thing in the morning before the doors open and the excited tourists and schoolchildren fill the space with their chatter. She pauses in the centre of the hall, which until recently housed the replica of a diplodocus skeleton. Dear old Dippy, out on tour around the country now. In his place, for a while, was the skeleton of a huge Blue Whale. But now the whale has gone, and in its place stands a single, huge lump of twisted metal.

The Cym Glas Mawr Meteorite. The subject of the Gwen’s recent studies.

It’s been in the Natural History Museum archives for years, brought from its home on a Welsh mountain to London by an intrepid nineteenth century naturalist with little care for local Welsh sensibilities. The subject of a long-standing but recently resolved dispute between Wales and England, it will be on display for a few weeks before returning to its homeland, where the Welsh Assembly intend to restore it to its original location with other glacial erratics upon the slopes of Cym Glas Mawr.

In the meantime, here it will sit, on display for the public of the world to marvel at. Even its vast bulk is dwarfed by the wide, airy room that surrounds it. Nevertheless, it towers over her, a massive, dark, brooding presence. Its purplish-brown surface is mottled with huge scars, testimony to the vast forces that had burned and quenched and compressed it in its short, brutal arrival on this planet. Elsewhere upon its surface, glaciers have etched striations as they transported it from its original resting place to the slopes of the mountain where it was found.

Unconcerned about the signs around it that admonish would-be touchers, she places her hand against its cool surface, marvelling at the rough touch of it beneath her fingertips, at its dips and grooves. What a sight it must have made, hurtling through the air as a massive fireball all those thousands of years ago, when it appeared without warning or mercy from the heavens.

It makes sense that it should displace Dippy here really, given what happened to the dinosaurs sixty-three million years ago.

Gwen’s display will open today. She hopes that the public will appreciate the wonder of its existence. That they, like her, will feel humbled and somehow reassured by the insignificance of mere human squabbles in the light of the vast, overarching cosmos.

The squeak-squeak of trainers upon the floor approaches, heralding the arrival of her boss and sponsor, the British Museum’s eminent leader, Dr Annis Caerleon.

“Ready?” says Annis, softly.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Gwen smiles at her. “I mean, not that you haven’t prepared me, or anything! It’s quite intimidating, though, don’t you think? But I can’t help wondering if I’ve got the point across all right, or if the public will just look at it and shrug? I mean, to most people it’s just a lump of rock that looks a bit like a giant turd; they won’t look beyond the surface to the barely visible crystalline texture. Are the displays around it too obvious? Do they leave enough room for mystery and wonder…?”

She bites her lip. She hadn’t intended to express her insecurity to Annis, of all people, but somehow couldn’t help blurting it out.

“It’s good to be self-critical up to a point, Gwen, but now is not the time.” The usual stern set to Annis’s mouth twists slightly in an almost-smile and she puts out a reassuring hand, resting it for a millisecond on Gwen’s forearm. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll be a massive success. Not least because of your royal contacts. What time will the princess get here?”

“Ten o-clock, as well you know.” Gwen pulls a face. “I hate that whole networking thing, Annis, and I’m sure it’s unethical to use my personal friendships like this, but you’re right, it will bring some welcome publicity to the opening ceremony. Besides which, I haven’t seen Mor— the Princess for ages.”

It is odd, really, how it happened; Morgana ringing her in the middle of the night, like that, just when Gwen had been fretting about publicity for the new exhibit. Gwen’s been tying herself in knots over the ethics associated with abuse of privilege, gaining her such a publicity coup. But the truth is that it boils down to a couple of mutual favours between friends. Gwen will analyze the composition of that weird, ugly bracelet that Morgana’s been so anxious about, and Morgana will bring in the press to beam pictures of her meteorite out across the world.

But she hasn’t got time to debate the morality of exploiting personal relationships for professional gain. The clock is striking eight, and a security guard is walking towards her, holding his hat apologetically in one hand as he approaches. He’s tall and bearded, with tangled strawberry-blond hair and an air of competence that instantly reassures.

“Dr Smith?” he says, extending a hand. “I’m here to inspect the security details for the Princess’s visit.”

“Leon!” she says, smiling as she recognises him. He had accompanied Morgana before, when she dropped off the bracelet for analysis. “It’s nice to see you again.”

"This display is amazing.” He sweeps his hand across the explanatory panels and the interactive LEDs.

“Of course it is. Dr Smith is one of our most talented and highly respected curators, Mr Knightly,” cuts in Annis with a disapproving frown. “As well as a deeply admired scientist.”

“I can see that, Dr Caerleon.” Leon bites his lip. “And anyway, Princess Morgana always speaks most highly of Gwen, Dr Smith, I mean!” His beard gathers pleasingly around his mouth when he smiles. “Anyway, can I look around? I’m sure my team have been thorough, but I like to do the last minute checks myself. I’m sure you agree that the princess’s safety is paramount.” As Leon strides off to check all the fire escapes, Annis watches him with a cynical eye.

“You have to watch them,” says Annis, softly, seeing the direction of Gwen’s gaze. “Men, I mean. One minute they’re all respectful and sweet, and the next minute their eyes are glazing over because a woman has had the temerity to speak out knowledgeably about her specialised subject. Mostly they just want to get into your pants.”

“Thanks, Annis,” says Gwen, wondering what sort of bitter experience underlies Annis’s words. Annis has been a fantastic mentor to her in so many ways. It’s amazing to have such a supportive boss. Gwen knows she’s been very lucky. “I really don’t think Leon is like that. But I’ll be wary, even so.“

“Hmm,” says Annis, sounding unconvinced. “Ah. Here she comes.”

At that moment, a kerfuffle near the main entrance heralds the arrival of the princess. Gwen swivels her head, craning it to see if she can spot her friend amid the crowd of excitable photographers and shouting cameramen, but Morgana is no taller than she's ever been. Sighing, Gwen resigns herself to the wait, folding her hands in front of her skirt.

When Morgana does come into view, she takes her time–crouching to greet pink-faced little children with bouquets of flowers. Gwen feels a fond smile creep across her face while she watches. Morgana has always been so beautiful. Her skin looks flawless as always. But as she steps slowly along the red carpet to where Gwen and Annis are waiting next to the meteorite, Gwen can see the tell-tale line between Morgana’s brows.

“Are you okay?” she asks later in an undertone, when all the niceties and speeches are over and the photographers are filing out of the room. “You look tired. Are you still having trouble sleeping?”

“Not exactly.” Morgana takes her arm and steers her over towards a display case, darting a glance over her shoulder as if to check that they can’t be overheard.

Annis takes the hint and starts to usher the assorted ranks of museum staff, security staff, and onlookers back out through the main entrance.

“Have you had a chance to look at the bracelet?” Morgana whispers. Now that they’re close, Gwen can see the tension bleeding from Morgana’s eyes and pulling at her jaw. Beneath her expertly applied make-up, she looks as if she could burst into tears at any minute.

“Yes,” Gwen says with an involuntary shudder. “I don’t like it, Morgana. I’ve dated it, and it’s very old—possibly even Romano-Celtic, certainly pre-Saxon era, within the range of uncertainty, I mean. But the metallurgy is off. I don’t know how something so old could have such high levels of rare-earth elements. I think it could be harmful. I don’t think you should wear it any more.”

“But it’s the only thing that helps me sleep!” says Morgana in a broken voice that will haunt Gwen’s dreams for days. “The nightmares, Gwen. Ever since Eira…”

“Hush, don’t think about that, Morgana.” Gwen strokes Morgana’s hand. It seems so fragile and cold beneath her fingertips. “Perhaps meditating would help you? I can recommend a good therapist.”

Abruptly, Morgana tugs away her hand. “That won’t be necessary. I have a therapist.”

Bang on cue, the creepy blonde woman that Gwen recognises as Morgana’s therapist walks up to them and flashes Gwen an insincere-looking smile. A small part of Gwen is wondering what the woman’s qualifications are, and resolving to find out after this meeting.

“Dr Smith,” Morgause says, reaching out a hand. “Splendid speech.” She smirks, as if to say the opposite.

“Morgause.” Gwen shakes it, despite herself, but inwardly she is cringing. “It’s a pleasure,” she lies.

“Come, dear sister,” Morgause adds, reaching for Morgana, who turns and flashes her a look of such adoration that it makes Gwen feel quite nauseated. It takes a moment or two before she realises what Morgause has said.

Sister?

Morgause is Morgana’s sister? But how?

***

***

 

“Arthur?” Seeing his friend on top of the hill, standing imperiously beside his mountain bike as if it is some kind of medieval mount and his bike helmet is his crown, Merlin drops his earphones and waves. “Over here!”

Arthur’s head swivels round and he waves back. Swiftly, he leaps onto his bicycle and pedals down the hill, reaching Merlin with a noisy skid on the gravel path before tossing his bike aside.

“Aren’t you going to lock that up?” Merlin nods at the bike.

“Nah!” Arthur snorts. “Like there is anyone around to steal it! Found anything yet?” He tugs one-handed at the helmet-fastening under his chin.

“Nah. Not even a ring-pull.” Merlin has a feeling that he won’t find anything interesting today. His gut tingles when there’s something nearby. Plus the bloody dragon has been haunting his dreams again, and he hasn’t had much sleep, so he’s feeling kind of low.

The iron-grey day echoes his mood. The steely sky sucks all colour from the landscape. A bitter cold leaches the heat from Merlin’s sleeves and trouser legs, making him shiver as he scans the ground. Occasionally, he casts a surreptitious spell to warm his numb fingers.

“Maybe it’s time you let someone else have a go.” Arthur seems to have no such concern. He smiles brightly, eyes dancing— an expression that always gives Merlin goose-bumps— pulls off his helmet and runs his fingers through his hair. Suddenly the sun breaks out from behind a bank of grey clouds and alights upon Arthur’s golden head, as if anointing him with light and banishing the day’s abundant shadows.

Merlin swallows, momentarily disconcerted. He wishes that Arthur didn’t have the ability to disarm him with just a quirk of his lips and a cocky swagger, but then Arthur goes and just _stands_ there, all broad-shouldered and athletic and all Merlin’s muscles turn to goo. It’s a strange kind of magic, and one that’s as old as the hills.

God, he’s so gone.

“Someone more skillful,” Arthur goes on, holding out a hand. “Go on, let me have a go.”

“Huh, I’m surprised your head fits into that helmet,” gripes Merlin. “I’m not sure my headphones will go over it.”

“Oh, haha, Merlin. Very funny. Now pass it over and show me how it works, numpty.”

“Good luck with that.” Merlin folds his lips together to hide his burgeoning smile. “Clotpole.” But he takes the earphones off and places them over Arthur’s head, grinning as he passes the handle over. “Careful, now. Wouldn’t want you to drop it on your foot.”

“How do you make it work?” Arthur grabs the handle and peers at the LED screen. “Where’s the on switch?”

“Right here.” Merlin shows him, trying to ignore the way that Arthur’s proximity gives him goosebumps.

“I don’t understand.” A crease appears between Arthur’s brows. “It’s not doing anything.”

Merlin shrugs. “No battery.”

“So how do you detect.” Arthur waves the hand containing the wooden stick around. “Things.”

“Magic.” Merlin taps his head with one finger. “Up here.”

“You’re having me on!” Arthur turns the handle over and over, looking in vain for the switch. He won’t find anything, Merlin knows. Because there isn’t anything.

“If you say so!” Ever since Merlin found out that he can hear the objects much better if he turns the detector off, he hasn’t really bothered with batteries. Although that’s kind of difficult to explain, and most people just kind of assume that he’s being deliberately vague to maintain some sort of mystique.

He should have known that Arthur wouldn’t be like the others, though.

Standing utterly still like a cat stalking its prey, Arthur gazes at him for a moment, appraising him without speaking. His eyes are an impossibly bright blue.

“Huh. So it’s kind of like a divining rod, for you?” he says, demonstrating a kind of intuition that unnerves Merlin. He’s still frowning, as if trying to figure out a puzzle.

“Yeah.” Merlin shrugs again, trying to be nonchalant, but his anxiety about revealing his magic is acute. What if Arthur hates it? What if Arthur is one of those anti-magicals? There are plenty of them about, with their prejudices and all that rhetoric about magic users being devious and self-centred. That’s the precise reason why he hasn’t told anyone before. He would be devastated if Arthur were to turn against him now. But the expression on Arthur’s face is one of curiosity, not disgust, which is how he plucks up the courage to continue by saying, “that’s exactly how it works for me.”

Abruptly, Arthur’s inquisitive frown clears, and he’s a vision of wide-eyed wonder. “Wow. I’ve always wanted a magical boyfriend.” He bursts out laughing, and honestly, Merlin swears it’s like the sun coming out from behind a cloud again. “I always knew you were special. Take it back, I’m going to draw.”

“ _You’re_ special.” Merlin scowls back, because it wouldn’t do to let on how much Arthur’s simple acceptance means to him, let alone how Arthur’s mere laugh sets his pulse racing and his head swimming. “Now, stop giggling and give me my detector back.”

“I do not giggle!”

“Do!”

“Do not!”

“Do!”

“Do not!” Sticking out his tongue, Arthur takes off his coat, and sits on it. Grabbing a pencil and notepad from his backpack, he starts to sketch, swift, confident strokes of his pencil that Merlin knows can capture anything from the texture of the grass to the bark of a gnarly old oak that sits nearby.

This ability to transform a blank sheet of paper into art; that’s like magic to Merlin.

Arthur… Arthur is a bright spark of gold among the heavy, leaden world, and it warms Merlin to his core just looking at him. There’s a funny, light feeling deep in his belly that tightens and uncoils at the sight of Arthur’s lowered head, his pale lashes flicking in concentration.

“Aren’t you cold?” Merlin nods at Arthur’s fingertips. “I’m shivering!” He strides over, flopping down onto the bit of Arthur’s coat that sticks out from under his bum, and takes Arthur’s hand, relishing the warmth of his blunt fingertips. “How come you’re not cold?”

“I have a fast metabolism,” says Arthur, looking up. His eyes flash blue. “The advantage of doing lots of sport.” He bends back to his task.

The sketch book is open to a page that shows the bare, distant lands. A tiny figure breaks the monotony of the grey sky.

“Is that me?” Merlin points.

“Yeah.” Arthur’s mouth quirks up in a sardonic smile. “Blot on the landscape.”

” _You’re_ a blot,” retorts Merlin, grinning back.

“Oh yeah? Can a blot do this?” Arthur darts forward, catching Merlin’s neck with one hand. He fastens their lips together.

At last. Merlin groans and deepens the kiss, slipping his cold hand beneath Arthur’s jumper.

“Argh!” Arthur flinches and pulls back. “Bloody hell! You’re freezing!”

Merlin laughs. “My mum always used to say I had poor circulation.”

“You never talk about your mum.” Arthur smoothes Merlin’s unruly curls with a gentle hand. “What happened to her?”

Merlin remembers.

It’s like a slap in the face with a cold bucket of water.

Abruptly, Merlin freezes and clamps his mouth shut. He grits his teeth and swallows, mouth working. He shakes his head, remembering and remembering until the thoughts in his head swirl into a giant ball of pain that makes his skin clammy and his breath come in short, quick spurts.

“Shit, Merlin, I’m sorry.” Arthur’s face falls. “Merlin?”

Merlin can’t. He can’t talk about this, not now, not even to Arthur. His throat just clams up and there’s a terrible ache compressing his ribs, making his chest hurt and his shoulders tremble. He doesn’t want Arthur to see him like this, not when the panic is building in him like a flame fanned by a hot wind. He has to get away, and now.

He hasn’t managed to stutter out the words describing that terrible night to anyone yet. Arthur means well, he knows, but suddenly the sallow darkness of the sky and the clouds that fog the air when he breathes are suffocating him.

He has to get away.

Abruptly, Merlin stands.

“Merlin?” calls Arthur. “Merlin! Wait! I didn’t mean to—”

Merlin’s feet stop dead and he turns to meet Arthur’s gaze. Something of his distress must show in his face, because Arthur looks devastated, as if he has lost something precious.

“I won’t ask again, I promise.” Arthur’s jaw is set in a determined line. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I swear I’ll never press.”

Somehow Merlin manages to contort his face into a tiny smile and he nods, desperately trying to blink back the tears. Because this is Arthur.

And somehow he knows that, if Arthur’s there, it’s going to be okay.

***

_…Merlin’s scuffed old Doctor Marten boot…_

 

***

 


	3. I felt the touch of the kings and the breath of the wind

The advantage that Arthur has over his parents is that he knows where his clandestine meetings with Merlin take place, whereas they do not. And they can’t keep him in forever, not when they have busy lives to lead, groceries to buy, and Kay’s activities to facilitate. He lets them think that he’s cowed, lets them think that he’s going to spend the afternoon in, working on his sculpture project, but instead as soon as the door is closed he’s pulling on his waterproofs and wheeling his bike out of the garage. The weather being vile, none of the neighbours are around to witness him scrambling off down the street with his helmet clamped down over his face and his anonymous waterproof overtrousers hiding the tell-tale Arsenal joggers.

Kay suspects him, of course. Brothers have a sixth sense about these things. But he knows he can trust Kay not to give him away— besides which, Kay doesn’t know where he meets Merlin, either.

The water drums on his cycle helmet and passing cars shower him with spray, but Arthur doesn’t mind. There’s an inner warmth and a compulsion to these meet-ups. As long as he’s back before six, everything will be fine. His mum’s Saturday surgery won’t be over until five thirty, and Kay's rehearsal will keep his dad occupied in Bridgwater until at least seven. It’ll be dark by then, of course, but he’s got good lights.

It’s not dark yet, but the dusk is heavy and the low clouds obscure the weak winter sun, so it might as well be. The rain sleets down in grey sheets. Arthur doesn’t even bother getting his sketchbook out. Instead, he just watches while Merlin scans the ground, noting the lines of his cheekbones, the faint grin that twitches at his lips, and the bulging hunch of his earphones upon his head. Like Princess Leia’s bunched hair braids, he thinks fondly.

“Gaius has heard from his friend, Annis, at the British Museum. She says that the helmet is sixth century Saxon,” says Merlin as he passes the detector across from side to side. “He’s really excited about it. It might be part of a bigger hoard. Wouldn’t it be fun to find more? Some coins or something? Or a shield?” He looks up, the cone of his head torch flashing as it illuminates the driving raindrops, which fall like tiny shattered diamonds and glint in its light.

Since the disaster of Mum-gate (as Arthur privately refers to the incident when he’d asked after Merlin’s mother), Arthur has been true to his word. He hasn’t mentioned Merlin’s mother at all; he’s skirted around the subject, and been rewarded with Merlin finally opening up to him once more.

He’s curious, though. It’s as if he accidentally managed to get close to the crux of the problems that haunt Merlin with one innocent remark about his mother. Merlin knows all about Arthur’s parents, of course— so it seems natural to expect him to reciprocate. But there’s something dark lurking in Merlin’s psyche, something that probably only a therapist should help him to unearth.

So Arthur sticks to safe topics and banter, until such time as Merlin feels free to let out a bit more of the darkness that hurts him.

“I wish you’d let me find something,” he says, articulating what’s been on his mind ever since he discovered that Merlin’s metal detector didn’t have any batteries in. “Can’t you teach me how you do it?”

“I don’t know, do clotpoles have magic?” Merlin looks up, grinning. “Do you find lost things easily? Uncle Gaius always makes me look for his keys.”

“What do you use? A metal detector for that as well?” Arthur pouts as if he’s fed up with Merlin’s abilities—and in a way, he is. It’s a bit sad always being the one who has to sit and make excited exclaiming noises while Merlin unearths oddments and coins and, if they’re lucky, the occasional rusty belt buckle (Top Shop, circa 1989).

“Don’t be stupid.” Merlin snorts. “I use a chopstick for that, obviously.”

“Obviously!” Arthur rolls his eyes. “Because there’s nothing like plastic designed to look like wood for helping to find _keys_.”

“Isn’t that what everyone uses?”

“You’re a proper little puzzle box, aren’t you, Merlin?”

“Shut up. I think I’ve found something.”

“I don’t know how you can find anything in this weather,” drawls Arthur.

“Well, you certainly won’t, sitting on your fat backside all day.”

“I’m not fat, Merlin. I am perfectly muscled.” He ignores the way that Merlin snorts at this statement and mutters something about muscles in Arthur’s head, before bending to dig into the earth with the business end of his trowel. “And anyway, even if I was, it would be sizeist and rude to say so.”

“I’m not complaining about the backside, _per se_.” Merlin cocks his head on one side, so that his head torch dips. “Quite the reverse, actually. It’s a class A bum, to be honest… Oh, bugger. Ring pull.”

“Oh, cheers, mate, thanks for the endorsement.”

Merlin laughs, pocketing the ring pull. “You’re welcome. Anyway, as I was saying, the bum definitely passes muster; it’s simply the inactivity that offends.”

“Right, so not content with objectifying my arse, you’re having a go at my work ethic!” says Arthur, voice rising in mock outrage. “Thanks a bunch!”

“I got an A for back-handed compliments at GCSE,” says Merlin smugly.

“And in case you haven’t noticed, _Mer_ lin, I’m tired. And cold. Some of us had to cycle all the way here.” Arthur sits upon a black plastic bin-liner beneath a broad oak, its splayed limbs bare and wintry, gnarled with age, while Merlin flashes him the occasional glance from beneath his hoodie, chattering all the while. “Come and warm me up.”

“Huh. You love showing off on your bike. Even in the rain. _Especially_ in the rain.”

“I resent that remark.” Privately, Arthur concedes that he may have sped through a puddle at high speed en route, whooping as the water sploshed in all directions.

But Merlin comes over, all the same, and flops onto the bin-liner by Arthur’s side, letting his metal detector drop to the floor and switching off the head torch so that they’re sitting in the dusk while the rain pours in a curtain around them.

It’s kind of weird, meeting up in the dark like this, but Arthur likes it. Likes to look on, while Merlin quarters the ground with his detector. Ever since finding that ancient helmet, Arthur’s been on tenterhooks and so has Merlin. It’s as if there is some object down there, calling to them both from beneath the waterlogged soil.

Merlin flashes him that look through his lashes, the one that has Arthur’s gut tying itself in knots. It’s an invitation, that look— one that soon has them both entangled, cool hands and hot mouths exploring each other. Merlin’s pressed over him, his weight pushing Arthur down into the bin-liner, grinding their groins together. Arthur’s trousers are tightening and suddenly, despite the cold, there are too many clothes.

The weather has made their hands slippery and cold but there’s a fire burning in Arthur’s belly that even the rain can’t quench. He should be leaving, should be home by now, but when Merlin’s head whispers down Arthur’s belly and his inquisitive hands tackle the problem of the trousers and zip, nothing else matters; only the hot glide of Merlin’s mouth on his cock.

His trousers end up bundled round his ankles, sodden and covered in mud, and he doesn’t care. Nothing else is important, only the exquisite movement of Merlin’s lips on him. He pants and curses as he comes, his pulse loud and heavy in his ears, Merlin’s weight pressing upon his thighs. And when he turns to reciprocate, Merlin lets out a sound half way between a groan and a sigh and coats his hand in heat, and damn it if that isn’t almost as much of a high as his own climax had been.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Arthur says, grinning at his achievement and wiping his hands on his wet jeans as he hoicks them back up. “All over my best trousers!”

“Prat!” Merlin, whose grin exceeds even Arthur’s in its wideness, making his teeth gleam despite the gloom. “That was amazing.”

“Of course it was.” says Arthur, smugly, as he arches his back to pull his trousers over his bum. “It was me.”

“Huh.” Merlin lets out a breathless laugh and flops down onto the muddy bin-liner, which is doing a frankly terrible job of keeping their clothes dry, although that might be something to do with the way that they have been writhing around on it. “No wonder we can only meet outside; your head’s clearly too big to get through doors.”

“Is that any way to talk to someone who’s just brought you off in a rainstorm?” Arthur throws his head back and laughs anyway, because there’s something about being with Merlin that makes him feel all lighthearted, on the edge of laughter most of the time.

“Did you have to remind me about the weather? I’m freezing!” says Merlin. “Warm me up, Arthur.”

“You should go home soon,” says Arthur, leaning back on his elbows as he gazes across the lanky lines of Merlin’s body. It’s not quite dark, not yet, and Merlin’s clothes are clinging to his spare frame. “You haven’t got enough flesh on those skinny bones to stay out in this weather.”

Merlin pushes his plump lips out into an enticing rosebud. “Says the man who’s just had the best blowie of his life.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” But Arthur chuckles at the truth of that statement anyway.

“I’m merely quoting you,” says Merlin. “Oh Merlin!” he says in a high falsetto that doesn’t sound at all like Arthur. “Yes! Fuck, that’s amazing! Oh Merlin, your lips! Fuck! I’m gonna—”

Arthur interrupts by tickling him vigorously. “You know, I think I liked you better when you didn’t speak!”

“Stop it!” Merlin tickles back. “Don’t be such an insensitive prat!” But he’s laughing so Arthur knows it’s okay. “You loved it!”

“All right,” says Arthur, feeling heat steal up his cheeks. “I concede. It was fucking amazing. But now I have your spunk all over my trousers, and I don’t know how I’m going to explain it to my mother.”

“You don’t have to tell her it’s mine!” says Merlin. “Anyway, the rain will clean you up.”

“Oh, great, so I tell her that I have some sort of mud kink and I’ve been out in the rain, wanking?” Arthur rolls his eyes. Damn, it really is a bit cold, but he doesn’t want to move, not yet. “That’s really a lot easier, _Mer_ lin, thanks for the suggestion.”

They lie upon the wet earth, laughing and goofing around in the aftermath, and Arthur is already planning how they can meet up again, because the idea of turning his back on Merlin, on the joy that they have found in each other, is so patently ludicrous that it cannot be allowed to happen. Arthur can no more avoid Merlin than he can avoid breathing.

But it’s dark now. Arthur’s shivering, and there’s something hard, a tree root no doubt, poking through the mud and digging into his bum. He has no idea how he’s going to explain the state of his clothes to his mother. Regretfully, they gather their stuff together and Arthur pulls up the bin-liner, jamming it in his pocket.

“Wait.” Merlin switches on his head torch. “There. Look.” He points.

 “What is it?” Arthur peers at the flattened patch of muddy grass where they had been sitting. Something is glinting by the light of Merlin’s torch. He bends to place a wet finger on it, encountering something solid and hard, right where he had been sitting, or rather lying, while they… anyway, no wonder his bum had felt sore.

“Well, bugger me!” says Merlin in a voice tinged with wonder.

“If you like,” says Arthur, smirking. “I might need a minute or two…”

“You’ve got a one track mind!” Merlin attacks him with a pointy elbow, but he’s still laughing when he bends down to dig around the hard object. “Hey, I think you might have found something. Give me a hand, will you? It’s metal”

“It is?” The excitement of a find is a heady thing. “I have? Wow! This one’s mine, okay?” Finally, Arthur’s the one who has found something! All thoughts of redeeming himself— by returning home before his mother gets back— flee. Instead, Arthur joins Merlin, scrabbling around in the dirt with the trowel. “It’s some sort of handle or something. I think I might be able to pull it out.”

“You can’t, prat, we need to dig around it first or you’ll damage it!”

But somehow Arthur knows that he cannot damage this object. Just the touch of it makes his numb fingers tingle with excitement. This find is different. In some fundamental way, it is _his,_ and it wants Arthur to find it. He knows it, and the knowledge makes something ache, deep in his gut.

Ignoring Merlin’s protests, he grasps the handle with an eager hand. His fingers curve around it, finding ancient grooves that seem to fit him perfectly. His hand recognises the fit of it against his palm. It sings to him, the music like the rush of the wind in his ears, and _oh_ , it says. _How I have missed you_.

With a whisper of steel, it emerges from the earth, gleaming bright despite the smears of mud that line its ancient blade. A sword! A huge, no-nonsense battle sword, sleek and incandescent in the light of the torch, with perfect lines and a cadence that echoes in Arthur’s mind like the distant thunder of battle. As Arthur gazes at it, turning it this way and that, it flashes and glows as if lit from within.

All along the blade, runes flash. Arthur can’t read them, but somehow he knows what they say. _Pick me up_ , the runes say on one side. _Cast me away_ , they say on the other.

“I’ll call you Excalibur!” Whooping, he holds it aloft, letting out a bellow, and swirls it around his head, bringing it to rest with its tip pointing down at the ground.

“Bloody hell,” breathes Merlin, gazing at Arthur wild-eyed.

Melin drops to his knees and bows his head in front of Arthur, in a gesture of supplication as old as the bare earth that surrounds them. There’s a faint, pale aura around him, whether from the head torch or something else, Arthur cannot tell. Lightning flashes, and the rain intensifies, falling with an audible hiss.

“And what about you, Merlin?” says Arthur, not knowing where the words come from. Excitement bubbles up in him, and sheer exhilaration makes him want to shout out loud. “Are you mine?”

“Always,” Merlin chokes. “I pledge myself to you, mind and body and magic,” he adds, as if speaking from some ancient ceremony that binds them together. “I swear it on the sword, a gift of the earth and sky, and on the fire that forged it. I swear it on the dirt and water that nourish life. We are as one, magic and power and destiny.”

When Merlin looks up again, his eyes glow gold. Ethereal lights play upon his hands and face, painting spiralling knots that weave golden patterns upon the pale canvas of his skin. His beauty surpasses that of any object that Arthur has sketched in a museum.

“Then I accept,” cries Arthur, his chest swelling with a sudden joyful surge of belonging.

Yes! He and Merlin. It is meant to be. Fate has brought them together, and the sword symbolises their pledge.

The thunderclap that follows echoes ominously around the land.

***

_…Burrow Mump, a prominent spot of high ground…_

***

 

Geoffrey Monmouth pauses outside the king’s office, hand poised to knock. He straightens, and picks a piece of imaginary fluff from his suit jacket before rapping once with his bare knuckles upon the sturdy oak.

“Enter.”

Glancing once at the security guard, who nods briefly his assent, Geoffrey presses the button. There is a faint click, and he pushes at the door while the buzzer sounds softly.

“Sire.” He crosses the room, shoes sinking into soft carpet, bows deeply, and waits.

“Come in, Geoffrey, do sit down, old chap.” Uther waves at Geoffrey’s customary seat. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

“Sire.” Straightening, Geoffrey shuffles, stiff-legged, towards the king’s mahogany desk, and sets himself gingerly down on the office chair, crossing his legs. The leather sighs beneath his weight as he settles.

When he looks up, Uther is regarding him, grave-faced above steepled fingers.

“The Druids have been up to their old tricks again, I see,” Uther says, a flicker of disgust flitting across his face, as well it might. He passes a tablet across the desk towards Geoffrey, but Geoffrey doesn’t need to look at it. He has been monitoring all the social networks carefully, and already knows.

“Indeed, sire.” Geoffrey glances down at the horribly popular blog that the king has unearthed, and snorts at the tagline, laced as usual with purple prose and inappropriate capitalization.

_Whomsoever lifteth ye sword shall be ye rightful ruler of all England,_

_For Emrys shall serve by his side, and all Magic shall protect him._

“Utter tosh, sire,” Geoffrey says calmly, passing the tablet back. “Taliesin Thomas again, I see. The man is a menace, one of many such. Charlatans and fraudsters, the lot of them.”

“Yes, but they grow bolder,” says the king, mouth turning down sourly. “They spout more and more of this vile nonsense, and yet still their following grows.”

“At least they claim to be peaceful, sire.”

Thomas and his Druid followers have been promoting his wacky theories for a while, now. The latest one contains the usual mumbo jumbo about destiny and the Once and Future King, but it also adds new froth about some sort of a magical sword that will allegedly herald the new ruler’s arrival. Nonsense, of course, but in a greedy and ignorant population, keen to find a scapegoat for all their current self-imposed predicaments, any unscrupulous group that claims to be able to overturn the king could rapidly develop into a threat.

“Nevertheless, we cannot afford to ignore their influence, Geoffrey,” says Uther. “We must guard against it. Draft a press release, would you? And call Odin.”

“At once, sir.” Geoffrey knows that he is right. They have learned the hard way that in times of austerity, it is impossible to ignore such ramblings. The seeds of strife and superstition find fertile ground when people are going hungry.

“The Daily Mercury has long been a good supporter for us,” says Uther.

“Nevertheless, we must be cautious.” Geoffrey strokes his beard, as he likes to do when he ruminates. “The man— Thomas— is popular with the riff-raff.”

“Indeed, Geoffrey. Fomenting strife with his nonsense about prophecies and swords. And the people grow restless.” The king sighs. “But we must rebut this somehow. These Druid hippies may be harmless, but what happens if the White Dragon faction seize on it and turn it to their own ends?”

“Indeed, sire,” echoes Geoffrey, internally wincing at the mention of the White Dragons, for it reminds him of what he must say next. “And sire, on that note, I regret to inform you that I have more news.”

“Oh?” Uther’s face remains stern, impassive as he leans back on his chair. “Pray tell.”

Geoffrey swallows. “It’s about the princess, sire.”

“Morgana?” Uther sits up sharply, alarmed. “What seems to be the problem? Is it that nasty business with that maid of hers?”

“In a way, sire.” Geoffrey gazes at a point just above Uther’s shoulder to avoid meeting his piercing stare. “It’s about her… indisposition.”

“What is it? Do you have any more information about my daughter’s latest illness?” The king shuffles some papers on his desk and selects one with restless fingers before discarding it again. “And what does it have to do with the White Dragon terrorists?”

Geoffrey sighs and shakes his head. “It is most unfortunate. It seems that, encouraged by her therapist, she has begun to interpret her own dreams as prophetic. It is only a matter of time before they become a matter of public knowledge.”

“How?” Uther frowns, his mouth creasing downwards at the edges, and the angry scar on his forehead deepens. “Is the therapist indiscreet?”

“I’m afraid that it’s worse than that, sire.” Geoffrey coughs, wondering how to break the news gently. “There’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid. I’ve completed some additional background checks and it seems that this… um... therapist... person, is not who her paper trail says she is.”

“Whatever do you mean, Geoffrey?” The king steeples his fingers and regards Geoffrey over the top of his knuckles.

“Sire.” Geoffrey sighs, his hands clammy against the wool fabric of his trousers.

“Spit it out, man. I don’t have all day.”

“Dr Fox is…”

“Well? Yes, Dr Morgause Fox.” Uther’s voice is still quiet, but his expression has turned sour and his fingers drum an impatient tattoo on the bare wood. “What of her? She was vetted before Morgana consulted her.”

“It seems that MI6 failed to discover her true origins, sire,” says Geoffrey. He rummages in his briefcase for an anonymous-looking brown folder and pushes it across the table to the king. “She hid her tracks well, but it seems that the so-called Dr Fox is actually a magic user named Morgause Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?” Uther blinks, face blank at first, but then an alarmed expression flits across his face, as he no doubt realises the implications of this discovery. A hand flutters up to his chest. “Cornwall? But that’s… No! Not…”

“I’m afraid so,” says Geoffrey. “I don’t know how she managed to hide it for so long. I fear that she’s Gorlois’s daughter. Which means…”

“She’s Morgana’s half sister,” says Uther, faintly. “Good God.”

“There’s more.” Geoffrey swallows. There’s no easy way to say this. “I fear… I fear that sources hint…”

“Come on, Geoffrey, I haven’t got all day.”

“Sources hint, sire, that Dr Fox is aligned with the terrorist organization we know as the White Dragons...”

“Good God,” says Uther, again. He runs a tired hand over his face. “You know what this means, Geoffrey? If they get their claws into her… do you see?”

“Sire…”

“If I lose her,” the king says, face as grave as a stone, throat working madly. “I lose everything...” His voice tails off and he stares blankly at the photograph of Ygraine that he keeps upon his desk.

“Sire.” Geoffrey coughs. “If I might be so bold?”

“Geoffrey?” When Uther looks up, his face is still distant.

“Um.” Geoffrey licks his lips, not quite sure how to proceed on such a delicate topic.

“I’m waiting.” Uther frowns, but at least sounds more like himself.

“It’s just that… there is… there is another. Sire.”

There’s a moment’s silence.

Geoffrey counts to five before daring to speak again. “And… if they get wind of that, and find him, then… I have no doubt that the White Dragons will be looking to recruit him, too.”

The two men stare at each other for a few heartbeats, and Geoffrey holds his breath.

Eventually the king clears his throat. “Then I suppose,” he says, “That we must find him first.”

Nodding, Geoffrey starts to back towards the door. He has got what he came for.

It is a risky strategy. But somewhere in the land, somewhere hidden by those who have sought to protect him, is a young person full grown. Spirited away by the queen’s physician, the child will have been brought up oblivious to his ancestry. Who knows who has raised him, and what values they might have taught him? Nevertheless, for each of us there may come a time when destiny calls.

And this is his.

***

***

“Arthur, your football kit is clean; come and fold it up.”

Arthur scowls down at the floor and doesn’t answer.

It has been three weeks and five days since Arthur last saw Merlin, since that fateful day since they found the sword and made that momentous declaration to each other. He thinks he might break something if he can’t leave the house soon. He has no phone, and he’s not even allowed to go out with Kay. His mum drops him off at school every day on her way to the surgery and his dad picks him up again afterwards. If he has a football game or a fencing competition, his entire family spectates. It’s driving him barmy, and Kay isn’t too chuffed about it either.

“Now, Arthur.” There’s a note of steel in Finna’s voice that means There Will Be Consequences, but Arthur has gone way beyond the point of caring. They’re treating him like a five year old, so he might as well act like one.

“I’m busy.” He carries on doing press ups, mentally counting, because it’s the only way that he can tolerate his own company.

 Because he misses Merlin. He doesn’t know why, or how, but he misses Merlin as if he has lost a limb. He wishes he could be out in the countryside, showing off on his bike while Merlin laughs at him, or shading fanciful sketches of Merlin finding ever more exotic objects beneath the damp soil. But no, he’s stuck here in his fucking house with his fucking parents and his fucking brother, doing press ups to avoid helping with the fucking laundry, as penance for getting a tiny bit of fucking mud on his clothes.

Plus, he doesn’t know what Merlin has found out about the sword. The one that felt magical beneath his fingers, as if it had been moulded to fit the shape of his hands and his alone. His burning curiosity and his frustration are growing within him. He thinks they’ll burst out if he doesn’t get to see Merlin soon. He’ll explode everywhere, and what a mess that will make. Bloody parents.

The door springs open with a bang. She’s standing there, his mother, he knows she is, but he won’t look up at her.

“Stop sulking, Arthur,” she says wearily. “It’s for your own good.”

“So you say,” he says between presses, voice tight with the effort. He’s beginning to tire, but not enough to stop, not yet. He doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. A part of him yells that he’s being petty, but he damps it down. “And yet. No evidence.”

She crosses over and sits on the bed. He can see her socked feet.

He grits his teeth and pushes out another ten repetitions before rolling onto his back and starting on a set of crunches.

“I just,” he says, breathing heavily, grunting out the words. “Want. To see him. Talk to him. He’s my friend. What’s so dangerous. About that?” He wants to see him. And touch him. Feel him hot and slick beneath his fingers. How can he explain that?

“The two of you can’t be seen together, Arthur.” Her breath gusts out in a whoosh. ”I can’t tell you more. But it won’t be forever.”

He stops his feverish activity and stares up at her.

“Is that a promise?”

She nods. “When you’re eighteen, we’ll tell you everything. But in the meantime… please, Arthur. Trust us. We love you. I love you. And I don’t want anything bad to happen to you… or to Merlin, for that matter.”

Fuck. It’s two more months until his eighteenth birthday. There’s no way that he’s going without seeing Merlin, without _touching_ Merlin, until then. His fingers, his heart, his _cock_ —all ache with the lack. He narrows his eyes, trying to discern some clue about why everyone is being like this. Finding none, he groans and turns back onto his front to resume his press-ups.

“And have you been keeping an eye out for anyone suspicious at school?” Finna adds.

“Yes, Mother.” It’s a good thing that he’s face down at this point, because she’d definitely take offence at him if she could see how much he’s rolling his eyes.

“And?”

“And nothing!” His arms are beginning to tire, and he pushes out a couple more reps before flopping face down onto the floor, chest heaving.

Actually, there had been a weird couple hanging around near the football pitch the other day, staring at him. A woman with creepy eyeliner and blond hair, and a tall bloke with longish hair, both wearing motorcycle leathers, had been standing on the touchline at their away match against Yeovil College. At the time, he’d assumed that they were just watching one of the other kids, but they’d only watched Arthur, then they’d walked off after the match without meeting up with anyone. It would be nice to think that they were scouts for a local professional team, but Arthur isn’t under any illusions. Besides which, they didn’t look football-y. Neither of them looked like they had the sort of temperament needed to withstand a dirty tackle without thumping someone.

And there had been a drone at that match, too. Quite a large one. Which was weird, because there hadn’t been a permission slip about it, and no-one had said there would be a drone, and Arthur couldn’t see who was controlling it. But the thing had hovered around near the referee, like some sort of giant hovering insect. It was quite distracting, to start with. But in the end he’d forgotten about it; no doubt it was meant to be for replaying key decisions or something. Overkill for a local football match, really, and as far as Arthur was aware no-one from Millfield had seen any footage.

But the teachers hadn’t been bothered, so it was probably nothing, and he isn’t going to give his parents the satisfaction of confirming their ridiculous paranoia, so he doesn’t say anything. The last thing he wants is for them to have more grounds for extending his exile.

“Fine,” she says. “In that case, laundry. Come on.” Her voice brooks no argument.

He pouts at the carpet, the injustice cutting deep, but follows her anyway, albeit with a display of reluctance. He’s got a germ of an idea, and he doesn’t want her to start thinking that he’s up to anything.

Kay will help. Kay will do anything for chocolate. Well, within reason, anyway.

 

***

***

Over the next few months, Arthur becomes adept at sliding down the drainpipe outside his window to meet up with Merlin out in the flat Somerset landscape. There is one hairy moment on a rainy night in February, when the wrought iron is greasy with water and his hand slips so that he slides to the floor and lands heavily on his rump. The occasional splinter of ancient, rusting green paint embeds itself more than once into the flesh of his palm. But soon he becomes familiar with every treacherous lump and bump upon its surface and he slithers down with ease, making only the slightest amount of noise.

Climbing back up would be more difficult, but luckily Kay’s bedroom is downstairs and over time they develop an identifiable code for Kay to let him in with sufficient advance notice, and an appropriate bribe— in this case, a bumper box of chocolate Freddos.

After all that, it’s the work of a moment to tiptoe along the gravel path with his bike over his shoulder, carefully deposit it wheels first on the other side of the gate, and follow it across into the lane outside his house with a well-executed one-handed vault, his blood fizzing all the while with adrenaline and anticipation.

Their meet-ups have become a whole lot easier to organise since they discovered that Merlin’s uncle sleeps like the dead— and wears ear-plugs, to boot. There could be an earthquake and the old bloke wouldn’t notice. Plus, there’s the fact of Merlin’s arcane talents. Arthur has to admit that he was sceptical at first, but when he realised that Merlin could create a bubble of silence around them that muffled any noises they might make, it had been a revelation.

He’s forgotten his gloves, and by the time he gets to Merlin’s tiny, anonymous terrace in a Glastonbury council housing estate his fingers are virtually paralysed from the cold. But Merlin pulls him into the house with warm hands and devours him with hot, hungry lips.

Such is the urgency of Arthur’s need that he spares not a word before pressing Merlin up against the wall of the hallway, seeking the secret spaces of Merlin’s face and throat with needy kisses. Despite the silent shield around them they stay quiet, trading only the occasional snatched breath or sudden exhalation, Merlin’s muttered exclamation as he flinches away from Arthur’s cold fingers. Arthur’s mouth tingles from traces of mint on Merlin’s tongue and his brain fogs.

Later, they lie sated and quiet upon Merlin’s narrow single bed, whispering into the crooks of each other’s necks while their pulses slow and their sweat cools on bare skin pebbled with goosebumps.

There’s a small window, and a stray beam of light shines in from the street, casting a slanted line across Merlin’s cheek as he turns.

“Do you believe in dragons?” whispers Merlin, idly tracing the hairs on Arthur’s chest with clever fingers.

“Dragons?” Arthur snorts out a laugh. “You mean that drone that keeps turning up to football matches? It’s a hoax, obviously! Someone’s got a drone and tarted it up to look like a dragon. It’s very clever, certainly, but I wouldn’t say I believe in it as such. Why?”

“Mmm.” Merlin’s hand drifts a little lower down to Arthur’s belly. “He’s not a hoax. He is real. He talks to me. The dragon, I mean. The one you’ve seen on telly. He tells me where to look for things. He likes football, the silly beast. Keeps getting spotted when he gets excited and loses his disguise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, _Mer_ lin. Dragons aren’t real!” Arthur grabs his wrist. “Stop that, it tickles.”

“This one is.” Merlin’s hand slows and his lips quirk up in a tiny, cryptic smile. “His name is Kilgharrah. I told him to stop scaring people, but he was afraid, Arthur. He woke up after a long sleep, and the world had changed. He doesn’t know how to live in it, any more… I told him not to chase sheep, but he didn’t listen to me. I’m worried about him. He’s found a derelict warehouse to hang out in, and he says it’s kind of like having a cave, but he gets hungry every few weeks, and that sheep won’t last forever… at some point he’ll come out again and won’t be able to hi— stop laughing! It’s not funny”

Because Arthur has rolled onto his side, curling into a fetal ball of mirth, with tears streaming from his eyes. “God, you really believe this stuff!”

“Shut up, prat,” When Merlin bashes him on the arm, he’s smiling back, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, which are dark beneath the arch of his brows.

“ _You_ shut up.” Arthur frowns back at him.

“What?” whispers Merlin. “No, _you_ shut up!”

And god dammit, he looks so sweet and silly and _Merlinish_ with that pout and those plump, curving lips and the arch of his mouth that it makes Arthur _ache_ just to look at him.

“I’ll shut _you_ up,” threatens Arthur, brain losing higher function in the face of these provocations. “With my _cock_.”

“Promises, promises.” Merlin tilts his head to one side and smirks. “Bet you can’t get it up again.”

“Bet I can.”

Because, of course, that’s a challenge that can’t be ignored. There’s a flurry of activity that starts with pillows, escalates with them landing in a tangled, giggling heap on the floor, and continues with Merlin’s mouth wrapped apologetically around the blunt end of Arthur’s cock, which, given how they’ve already spent the last hour, ends surprisingly satisfactorily.

And there’s no more talk of dragons, but later when Arthur’s on his own in his bed, he watches footage of the drone with the flamethrower, scaring the crowds at Plymouth Argyle football ground silly, and admits that it looks damn realistic. And if anyone could have the power to forge a telepathic mind link to some sort of medieval magical creature, it would have to be Merlin.

***

***

Gwen scurries along the Science Museum’s snaking behind-the-scenes corridor with the print-out in her hand, pausing only to fill her water bottle at the cooler. There are thousands and thousands of metres of corridor connecting the different areas of the Science, Geological, and Natural History Museum complex, and her little lab is miles away from Annis’s office. Sometimes Gwen feels like she’s walked along all of them before she reaches her destination. And today she’s feeling particularly impatient; it’s been an intense morning and she can’t wait to share her results with Annis. When she gets to the office, Annis’s door is partly open so she knocks and pushes inside.

“Annis?” Gwen looks over the room.

Annis’s office exudes academia. The scent of leather and old varnished oak pervades the room, which boasts a large desk, with the usual jumble of papers and journals sprawling across it, and an optical microscope in pride of place. Her shelves are a riot of academic texts. Wooden display cases line the walls, with some of Annis’s personal finds locked in them. They reflect a wide range of research interests, from fine art and fashion through to Geology and Archaeology, and include an eclectic mixture of fossils, minerals, and medieval metallic objects.

Even though Annis was originally an archaeologist, their current metallurgical analysis projects require the sort of facilities that are more commonly used by geologists. Which might explain why Annis uses a large pyritised coprolite as a paperweight, which looks every bit the turd that it once was. Gwen’s pretty sure that she takes secret delight in grossing out her more annoying clients by handing it to them and asking them if they can guess what it is. Most people are pretty grossed out by holding a poo, even if it is over seventy million years old.

Ignoring these, Gwen glances at the two unexpected people in the room. One of them is a boy, barely out of his teens, with a shock of dark hair, milky pale skin, and high, fey cheekbones. He is standing with his hand resting on a storage box, gazing intently at it as if he can divine what lies inside by the power of thought alone. Knowing that it contains the very subject of the analysis that Gwen is about to report to her boss, Gwen can’t help shivering, unsettled by the coincidence. The other visitor sits upon Gwen’s usual chair: an elderly man with wispy, white hair. He looks up at her, quirking an interested eyebrow.

“Shall I come back later?” asks Gwen, although she’s curious, especially about the boy.

There’s something odd about the loving way that he drags his fingertips across the lid of the storage box. Something almost proprietorial.

“Hold on,” says her boss into the phone. She places her hand over the receiver. “No, no, dear Gwen, Gaius and Merlin brought us the sword. Gaius here is an old friend and fellow curator.” She waves at the old man in the chair. “Merlin found the sword in the Somerset Levels with his metal detector, and he is naturally interested in what we have to tell him about it.”

The boy shakes his head minutely, as if to disagree with what she said, but his mouth remains stubbornly closed, lips forming a thin, pressed line.

“Actually, it was Merlin’s friend who found the sword,” says Gaius, exchanging a look with the boy. “But his friend has an exam today, whereas Merlin is on... study leave.”

Study leave? Just a school-kid, then. Gwen hovers in the doorway, unsure.

“They can hear what you have to say, Gwen. Do come in.” Annis beckons. “Gaius, this is Dr Gwen Smith— she’s a metallurgist working in my group. She has some results to discuss with us today. I’m sure you’ll be interested to hear her findings.” She goes back to her phone call.

Well, if these are the detectorists who found the sword, that explains the almost possessive way that Merlin touches the perspex that houses it.

“A metallurgist, eh? Exactly what we need, dear Annis. Ah, the joys of working in the capital. You are indeed fortunate to have such well qualified staff on your payroll,” says the old gent, Gaius. He holds out a hand for her to shake. “Delighted to make your acquaintance. Back in my fusty old museum, I’m lucky if I can get funding for a work experience student to help out in the school holidays.”

“Yes,” says Gwen, smiling sympathetically. So many local museums have had to close since the economic crash and ensuing political turmoil that had led to Uther establishing his autocratic government. “Well, European Union funding has dried up, so it’s a constant battle to get grants for my work, but I’ve recently received an anonymous donation which covers part of the cost of running the lab. And the Natural History Museum gave us room for the facility, as long as they could share it with us. We’re very fortunate, really.”

“Fortunate, indeed. We originally went to the British Museum,” says Gaius. “But even they didn’t have funding for this sort of analysis. They told us to talk to Annis, so here we are.”

Gwen places her print-out on the table and drags another hard, plastic chair off the stack that Annis keeps in the corner. Sitting, she takes a grateful sip of her water. She’s been on the go for hours and has forgotten to drink anything. She’s parched.

“I’m in a meeting,” Annis says into the phone. “Tell them I’ll call them when I’m available.” She sighs and replaces the phone on the receiver. “Some clients are so entitled,” she grumbles, even as she opens the lid of her laptop and types in a few letters. “Now, let’s look at these results, shall we?”

Gwen can’t help glancing across at the storage box where she knows that the sword itself lies, covered, with moist nitrogen blowing across it. It’s been buried in wet peat for centuries, away from the corroding effects of oxygen and sunlight, and until they’re sure it won’t rust, they don’t want to risk it decomposing in normal air.

At the same time, her eyes meet those of the boy, Merlin. When he smiles at her, it’s like the sun breaking free of a cloud. It’s such an infectious moment of sheer joy that she can’t help smiling back.

“Perhaps we could start with the visual inspection results, first?” prompts Annis.

“Hmm? Oh, yes! Visual inspection results first,” says Gwen. “As I said in my email…”

“Give me a verbal precis,” says Annis, which means she hasn’t read her email yet today. Sometimes, Gwen wonders why she bothers writing emails to Annis.

“Of course.” Gwen clears her throat and shifts on her chair, trying to recall the facts as succinctly as possible. “Well, it’s a fascinating object. There are no obvious defects— we’d expect pitting from rust, sulphide inclusions— at the very least, I’d expect some scratches and abrasions, but apart from some fairly subtle tarnishing, the blade is exceptionally well preserved.”

“Odd.” Annis leans back in her chair, steepling her fingertips. “Could be a modern-day replica.”

Merlin starts at that, and frowns. He knows, thinks Gwen. He knows it’s not.

“Is it Damascus steel?” says Gaius.

“The analysis shows that the nickel content is nearly ten per cent,” says Gwen, the excitement making her smile widen. “Too high for Damascus steel. You would think that with such a high nickel content, it would be too brittle to be a useful weapon. And yet, the surface remains blemish free, the blade sharp. Extraordinary preservation, if it is indeed an antique object.”

And she knows it is.

“With that nickel content, could it be a meteoritic sword?” says Annis, her chin perched upon her steepled fingers. Her face appears calm, but Gwen can see the way that her fingers twitch. This is an exciting find. She knows it.

“Yes,” Gwen says, She beams at Annis. “But there is no Widmanstätten texture. We would expect to see troilite nodules, but there aren’t any of those either— and there are no Schreibersite grains or other blemishes. No, what we see here is pretty exceptional; my analysis shows that it does indeed have a meteoritic origin. Forged from a single kamacite crystal, it was quenched to produce martensite, and then tempered to increase toughness. The blacksmith must have been a master of their craft. It would be an incredibly strong blade for its time.”

“Extraordinary!” Gaius gasps.

“Yes. But there’s more, too. It has very high iridium, and is rich in trace earth elements— far more rich in them than I’d expect even if it has a meteoritic origin. This is a very rare object indeed.”

“Do we have an approximate age for it yet?” says Annis.

“I’m coming to that.” Gwen says. She bites her lip, excitement making her throat dry. “We were able to take a small sample of leather material from the hilt. The patterning on the hilt and the radiocarbon dating confirms the age. This sword was forged between five hundred and five fifty, Common Era.”

“Good God,” says Gaius, faintly. “It’s nearly fifteen hundred years old.”

And about those trace elements: Gwen has only seen a spectroscopic pattern like that from one object before. The bracelet that Morgana asked her to look at.

Gwen doesn’t like the bracelet; it gives off an odd aura that makes her skin shiver when she touches it. The sword also has a strange aura about it, but it is sharp and clean whereas the bracelet feels greasy and tainted.

At that moment, the door opens. All their heads swivel around. Two people occupy the doorway; Gwen recognises one of them.

“You!” she gasps, pointing a finger. “You’re Morgana’s therapist!”

“You’re her pet metallurgist. How fitting.” An ugly sneer flits across the woman’s face. “I’m Morgause Cornwall, and I’ve come for my sword.”

“It’s not yours, Morgause,” says Annis, standing up.

“By Britain’s treasure trove law, it belongs to the boy who found it,” says Gaius, struggling to his feet at the same time.

“Of course it’s mine,” scoffs Morgause. “Who do you think paid for your little research facility, hmm? To all intents and purposes, I own you, Dr Smith.”

Gwen opens her mouth to protest, but the leather-clad man at Morgause’s side is already walking towards Merlin.

“Retrieve the sword, Cenred,” Morgause orders. “It’s in the box over there. I should thank you, old man, for bringing it to me.”

Cenred grins as his boots tap ominously on the wooden floor, leather trousers creaking with every step. As he reaches out, his sleeves fall back to reveal a curious-looking armband. Its style resembles that of the bracelet that Morgana brought her. How odd. A dull, grey-ish silver in colour— probably pewter, like Morgana’s bracelet— Cenred’s version is inlaid with amber that seems almost to glow an angry shade of orange.

“Hand over the sword, kid,” drawls the man. “Time’s up.”

Merlin gapes at him. He’s seen the arm band, too; he flinches away from Cenred’s arm almost before Cenred starts to push Merlin out of the way. The boy over-balances, sprawling backwards onto a paper-littered workbench with a pained cry.

“Hey!” protests Gwen, hurrying over to check that he’s okay. “Are you all right?”

Merlin shakes his head, eyes still fixed on Cenred’s arm. He lifts a trembling finger and points. His eyes are dilated, skin even paler than before. His mouth opens, but no sounds come out.

With a metallic click, Cenred opens the clasps on the box and pushes up the lid.

“Don’t do that!” shouts Annis. “The sword is in a protective atmosphere!”

“Shut up, you stupid old woman,” sneers Morgause.

“How dare you!” cries Gwen. Any sympathy she might have had for the woman has gone now. How can she say that about Annis!

“Shut up, little puppet, and remember who owns you.” Morgause reaches out with a hand and starts to incant in a strange language. Her eyes morph to a vivid orange colour.

And that’s when it all goes weird. Later, Gwen will try to find the right science to explain it, but right now all she can think is that the air is thickening somehow. She tries to reach for the sword, but her hands and legs won’t budge. It’s as if she’s trying to move through glue.

Her vision blurs—or rather, it’s as if all the objects in her line of sight blur and shimmer. Merlin’s eyes are wild, his throat working. He holds out a splayed hand towards the box containing the sword. His lips move as if he’s speaking, but no words come out.

There’s a sort of shimmering, metallic _shiiiing_ like the sound that happens in movies when someone draws a sword. Suddenly all the lights in the room go out. All she can see is the strange, amber glow of a pair of bright eyes. Merlin’s eyes, shining gold. There’s a tang of sulphur.

Abruptly, the lights flicker back on.

Merlin is still where he was. But his eyes still glow faintly before they dim from gold to blue.

“How…” Gwen mouths.

Merlin shakes his head and shrugs, smiling wanly.

As for the sword…

Cenred turns away, empty handed.

“Where’s it gone?” he shouts. “It was right here! Where is it?”

And, all right, so Gwen should be concerned about what seems to be the magical theft of a precious artefact, but as Merlin was the one who brought it in, she supposes that he’s entitled to decide what to do with it. Besides which, she doesn’t think much of this Cenred bloke, with his flashy long hair and his stupid beard. Who does he think he is, bloody King Charles II?

She catches Merlin’s eye again, and he winks at her.

“You! You little weasel.” Morgause stalks over to Merlin and yanks roughly at his arm. “It was you. I saw your eyes flash. What have you done with it?” She slaps his face, hard, so hard that her finger-marks show up in livid relief upon his pale cheeks.

Merlin doesn’t fight back; he just stands there, smiling faintly.

“Hey!” protests Gwen, filled with righteous indignation and fellow-feeling. “You can’t hit him! He’s just a kid! That’s assault! Annis, call security!”

“What have you done with it?” screams Morgause again, ignoring her.

Merlin doesn’t answer, but his mouth twists up at the corners.

There’s a sudden clattering of footsteps on the corridor outside. Three more people burst in. It’s a large office, but suddenly it’s terribly crowded.

“Annis, come quickly!” says one of them, red-faced and panting. It’s George— one of her research assistants. “Gwen! Oh, God, you’re not going to believe this.”

“Oh, God.” Gaius covers his face with his hand and groans. “Merlin, what have you done?”

Even as Morgause drops him, making him stumble backwards, Merlin shrugs, his mouth set in a mutinous line.

***

***

 

Gwen is beginning to revise her original opinion about Merlin’s youth and harmlessness. For a start off, he still hasn’t apologised. Come to think, he hasn’t spoken out loud at all. And while she does feel a bit sorry for him, wilting under the tongue-lashing that he’s now getting from Annis and Gaius as they walk, she can’t forget what she saw back in Annis’ office, either. Merlin’s eyes had flashed as if they were lit from within. It was a weird, shocking moment— so fleeting that she could barely believe her own memory of it. But the sword is definitely gone.

As she approaches the display, an anxious feeling twists in her gut, and she can’t work out whether it’s the sour pain of seeing something that she’s worked so hard for ruined, or more straightforwardly the sheer terror evoked by the display of power that had achieved it.

She pauses, blinking back tears, a few metres away from the rock.

Merlin sort of droops onto a chair, head bowed. He hardly cuts a fearful figure. His lips are folded mutinously together, and he looks more like a sulky teenager than a terrifying warlock. And yet. The evidence of his power stands before her, stark and unequivocal. Cast in stone. Quite literally.

She should be furious, to be honest, at the way that not one but two precious and irreplaceable objects have been sabotaged. But a grudging part of her can’t help feeling pretty impressed at the way that Merlin outsmarted the creepy Morgause and her thuggish sidekick, both of whom had taken the opportunity offered by the resulting kerfuffle to vanish.

All around her, throughout the great hall of the museum, security guards usher protesting crowds of people out. There’s no way that they can hush this fiasco up, not with all the mobile phone footage showing the bright white flash and the heavy booming sound. Not to mention the public’s screams heralding the sword’s sudden appearance, and the way that the meteorite’s metallic surfaces glowed as they flowed around the sword, swallowing it up. Gwen has already seen footage; it has been broadcast all over the world on social media already.

Still, at least it would bring the museum publicity.

In a thoughtful little bubble of her own, Gwen blanks out the excited murmuring of the public. In one fluid movement, she steps over the cordon. Walking around the meteorite, she lets her fingers trace its bumps and sharp edges. Cool beneath her fingertips, it still has the power to strike her with awe, despite her disgruntlement at the circumstances.

The majority of the rock is as it was before—a rusty, dullish brown, with the faint lines of the Widmanstätten texture forming odd little bumpy triangles under her fingers, like a sort of extraterrestrial Braille. But now, at the front of the rock, facing the entrance to the museum, there is a new and sheer blank face to it, shining a bright silver in the sunlight that steals in through the high windows. It’s as if the meteorite has been sliced by a giant saw. It’s a spectacular sight, with the polished facade decorated by the same patterns she feels beneath her fingers, brought out into shiny, bold relief, as if molded in filigree by an alien hand during the object’s journey from a far-away planet.

So far, so normal. She’s seen cut and polished iron meteorites before. Beautiful, yes. Awe inspiring, yes. But not out of the ordinary. The metallurgist in her notes the thickness of the lamellae of kamacite and taenite, considering things like quenching temperatures and nickel content. But this astounding cut face, glorious though it is, is not the thing that will draw people through the doors of the museum to gawk.

The stark outline of the sword embedded in the shiny metal, with only its hilt protruding: that will bring them flocking. The cut face of the meteorite is vertical, but the blade’s outline is clearly visible, standing proudly out from the rock but part of it, like another, even more crisp-edged crystal. The hilt sticks out of the top, where this new, shiny flatness gives way to the natural, pitted surface. As if that is not a clear enough invitation, at the foot of the stone is a granite plaque which proclaims, in beautiful copperplate handwriting:

_Whoso pulleth out this sword from this stone is rightwise king born of all England._

Gwen recognises the quote, obviously. Who wouldn’t? She’s seen the Disney movie. What she doesn’t understand is why on God’s earth Merlin has decided to use it in this way.

Frowning, she looks over to where the young man who had caused all this trouble sits, sagging miserably onto a bench, being harangued in stereo by both his uncle and Gwen’s boss. As she looks over, Merlin raises his head. Their eyes meet briefly, and he shrugs in apology.

 

***

***

Merlin has Annis yelling in one ear and Gaius yelling in the other, but it is not them that he is paying attention to. Instead, it is the sad downtilt of Gwen’s mouth as she traces a loving hand over the big rock, and wishes that he’d been able to put the sword somewhere else. He hadn’t meant to upset her; he had developed an instant liking for her, and after all, she is the one who defended him against the magic users who had burst into Annis’s office.

Those magic users… Cenred and Morgause. He shivers when he remembers them. The bracelet that Cenred wore— he only glimpsed it for a second but absolutely certain he recognised it. The memory makes his throat clam shut, and he squeezes his eyelids tightly together to suppress the bright heat that prickles behind them.

When he looks up again, Gwen is staring straight at him. Unable to meet her eyes, he looks away to where, far off at the back of the hall, the statue of Charles Darwin sits.

If anyone asks him directly—not that they will, how could they know to? But if they do, he will tell them that, in the end, the sword chose its destination itself. Sensing its jeopardy, feeling the sick magic that sought it, the sword itself sang to him, a song of distance and heat and overwhelming pressure, of dark metal and depth. And Kilgharrah, the black dragon that haunts his thoughts, sang a great counterpoint to the melody— a harmony that spoke of destiny, and legend, and of the return of righteous magic to counterbalance the dangers that Albion faced from the encroaching evil of the White Dragons. The song built to a heavy crescendo that compelled Merlin to just _push_. All he gave it was a little nudge. The sword did all the rest. In his mind’s eye, he watched in awe as it etched the words upon the granite, driven by an invisible hand, and then sank into the meteorite like a person embracing the blankets of their bed after a long day.

He’s always known that he could do things; his mother had warned him when he was little not to let anyone else see. And now he has broken that trust; first Gaius, and then Arthur… and now Annis and Gwen all know his secret, not to mention the scary woman, Morgause and her sidekick. The cat is out of the bag, and all he can do is keep his mouth shut and hope that no others might find out.

He hasn’t damaged the sword or the meteorite permanently. In many ways, the two objects are kin, and they agreed to help each other. If he closes his eyes, he can feel a sort of happy hum of peace and mutual respect, a low tone with harmonies overlaying it, from the crystals in the rock and the single crystal from which the sword was forged.

Opening his eyes, he can still see the faint, original outline of the meteorite as if it hides behind a crack in reality. When Albion’s true heir lifts the stone… well, the meteorite will be restored. He knows this in his bones, can see it lurking behind the edges of his vision. But until then, the plaque will draw people here— worthy and unworthy. None of them will be able to do it, he knows that too. Only one person has the right. And one day he will come here, and on that day the meteorite will return to its former shape.

Annis and Gaius are arguing with each other now—Merlin hears brief snatches of things like “real villains of the piece”, “press charges”, and “just a boy, he hasn’t even done his A levels yet”. He tunes them out and hunches his s houlders over, letting his chin drop onto his chest, and tries to trace the bright, tainted slick of the woman Morgause’s magic with his thoughts. It’s not in the building any more, but faint traces of it linger in the corridors and labs around Annis’s office, making him shudder.

Blinking, he returns to himself. He will track them down, he promises himself. He will track them down, one day. He knows their names now. And they will pay.

At least they won’t get the sword. It is safe now, although Arthur might not see it that way.

He swallows when he thinks of what Arthur’s reaction might be. The sword had been a symbol of some sort, something that cemented the promise that Merlin had made. The thought of that promise—so pure and instinctive—was what had prompted his need to protect the sword from the taint of encroaching dark magic. But what choice did he have, truly?

“Hog-Wart!” Kay’s voice drifts up the stairs.

“Fuck off, Kay-bot. I’m revising.” Their parents are both out, or Kay wouldn’t use that casual nickname, and Arthur wouldn’t risk the expletive. His mum can get a bit snotty about that sort of thing. Yawning, he rubs his eyes and blinks at the paragraph again.

_The brief alliance of Charles, Buckingham, and the House of Commons collapsed with a refusal by MPs to vote the new King Tunnage and Poundage for more than one year._

Nope, it made no more sense than it had the first ten times. Frustrated, he closes his eyes and bashes his textbook against his head repeatedly. Fucking History A level. Fucking Stuarts. Why did they have to use such stupid, archaic language? What the hell are Tunnage and Poundage anyway? They sound like characters from a superhero movie about weight loss. He starts to giggle, only slightly hysterically.

“Hey, Wart!” Feet pound up the stairs. “Wart, you dozy shite, come and look at this.” Arthur’s door is flung open, and Kay stands there, panting.

“Jeez, bro,” drawls Arthur, swivelling round on his office chair. “You really should get more exercise.”

“Sod off with the sanctimonious bullshit, Wart, and come and watch this on the telly.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “For the gazillionth time, I don’t give a fuck about the bloody Kardash—”

“It’s that bloke. The one you’ve been seeing. He’s on telly. And you wouldn’t believe what’s happened…”

“What?” Arthur springs back from the desk. “Merlin? On telly?”

“Yeah!” Kay laughs. “Him and some museum type. She’s a fit looking bird and all, I think she’s a friend of the princess. Hey, do you think he can get me to meet her…”

“God, you’re disgusting. Shut _up_.” Arthur takes the stairs two at a time and bursts into the living room. The TV is on pause— he rewinds the clip. Sure enough, skulking around in the background amid some crazy story about magical swords and meteorites, there is Merlin, looking as if someone has dragged him through a hedge backwards as usual, with his baggy jeans sagging in the bum area, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Arthur feels a sudden burst of affection at the sight and God, all this revision is killing him. He needs to see Merlin soon.

But that’s when something else catches his eye, and he rewinds back to the relevant part of the story. He frowns at the screen, at the great big hulking rock that Merlin’s hiding behind, and follows the hands of the excited reporter gesticulating at it.

“Hold on a minute,” he breathes, squinting at the screen, moving forward until he’s only a few inches from it. “Jesus,” he adds, waggling an outraged finger. “That’s… that’s my fucking sword!”

“Arthur…”

“...jammed into a bloody meteorite! Jesus! What the fuck, Merlin? Non-destructive analysis, you said. As for that bloody thieving conservator uncle, Gaius or whatever his name is, _he_ said he was going to conserve it! Bloody charlatan! He said they wouldn’t damage...”

“Arthur!” says Kay sharply. Brimful of indignancy, Arthur turns to glare accusingly at Kay who just gapes back at him and then points at the screen. “There’s more.”

Stalking back to the telly, Arthur peers down at the reporter. Abruptly, the picture cuts to a picture of the king’s head, giving a speech to parliament.

“What?” Arthur rolls his eyes. Bloody kings, he’s had enough of them today. “What’s he got to do with anything?” He’s so busy frowning at the telly that he misses the first part of Uther’s speech.

 _“.... daughter is no longer well enough to remain crown princess. With a heavy heart, she has decided to relinquish the role and focus on her health.”_ The king pauses and coughs discreetly into his hand before resuming, staring straight at the screen as if speaking directly to the viewer.

Probably reading from an autocue, thinks Arthur, cynically, but he can’t help feeling as if the king is addressing him and him alone.

 _“However, do not fear. The succession is not in jeopardy. Before my wife died tragically, eighteen and a half years ago, she gave birth to a son. And it is my belief that somewhere in this kingdom, that son is still alive. It is my ardent wish to find him and bring him home to me, his father, where he can regain his birthright. But how is he to prove such a thing, you might ask? Those who took him hid their tracks well, no doubt concerned for the boy’s welfare. As well they might be.”_ Uther chuckles self-deprecatingly, as if he’s discussing a minor past misdemeanor rather than the brutal, murderous rage that had overtaken him after the Queen’s death. _“But I can assure you, any ill-feeling on my part is long past. Once found, the boy will be welcomed home with open arms, and should he prove loyal to his country he will be given the keys to the kingdom.”_

The camera zooms back to the TV studio, where the reporter is busy summarizing the rest of the king’s statement.

 _“...has invited every boy over the age of eighteen to attempt to pull the sword from the stone,”_ the reporter is saying, her expression betraying no emotion beyond a sort of distant interest in the proceedings. _“The successful candidate will keep the sword and be named Crown Prince. Applications should be made in writing, with proof of age, to...”_

“What the fuck, Merlin?” To think he’d been looking forward to seeing him! The memory of that fateful night when they had found the sword is still seared upon Arthur’s brain, as if written there by the invisible hand that wielded the lightning. It’s Arthur’s sword. Arthur’s alone. Merlin had pledged his allegiance to him on it. Surely that meant something?

He stares at the screen, which zooms in on Merlin’s face. Merlin’s expression is closed-off, shuttered, eyes hooded beneath pressing brows.

Evidently not.

And now the bloody King has commandeered it for his own filthy ends. Arthur swallows down the bitter pang that knifes into his chest as he mutes the telly and starts pacing up and down the room, plotting how to get his sword back. Because there’s no way he’s going to let some over-muscled knucklehead just take it, even if Merlin has gone back on on his part of the vow. Just thinking about it sparks a stinging pain in his throat.

“What are you going to do?” Kay is by his side, speaking quietly as he gestures to the telly.

“What do you think?” scowls Arthur, jabbing at the off-switch. “I’m going to find out what the fuck is going on. And then I’m going to get my fucking sword back.”

***

_...the texture of the bark is a particular favourite..._

***


	4. Will you swim through the briny sea for me?

It takes a week—a week of slammed doors and sudden outbursts and being avoided by Kay. Finna and Hector put it down to the stress of exams. But eventually the tortuous wait is over, and Arthur has the opportunity to confront Merlin about his sword.

It’s early in the morning, and somewhere in a tree nearby a bird trills, answered by a distant echoing call. A high trunk stretches up to grey sky, crowned with new leaves like pale green fingers reaching for the sun. On another day, Arthur would have liked to sketch it—to capture the ephemeral shiver of the breeze against the gently waving boughs. But not today.

Today there will be a reckoning.

“Bloody well talk to me, fuck’s sake.” Arthur’s voice shakes and he balls his fists. “Don’t just stand there. What were you thinking?”

Merlin inhales sharply, a hurt expression flitting across his face. His eyes de-focus, and he stares over Arthur’s shoulder.

“Oh, no. Don’t you dare.” Arthur grabs Merlin by the shoulders and gives them a good shake. “Don’t you dare close me out. I thought that sword meant something. Something special about you and me. I thought you cared. I thought we had a _deal_.”

Swallowing, Merlin bites his lip. His nostrils flare and his eyes start to glisten, but he still says nothing and avoids meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“Speak to me, Merlin,” yells Arthur. “Say something, damn it!” He grabs Merlin’s chin with one hand and tries to force his face round, but still Merlin looks away, gaze flitting from the sky to the distant horizon and back, anywhere but at Arthur, eyes blinking furiously.

Merlin’s pupils are dilated, his eyes unfocussed; pallor leaches all the colour from his skin, and despite the cold there’s a gleam of sweat on his forehead. His breath comes in great, jerky gasps, making his shoulders heave.

“Oh no, I can see what you’re doing, and you are not going to lay the blame for this on _me_ ,” Arthur cries. “This is not my fault!” He closes his eyes as tight as he can and lets the crux of the matter gust past his lip with a great whoosh. “I _trusted_ you!”

There’s a tiny distressed sound from Merlin, but still nothing to explain his deeds, and Arthur can’t bear it. Can’t bear to look at Merlin’s face, at the lips that have deceived him with words and soft caresses and _lies_. But he forces himself to; forces open his eyes, glares into Merlin’s face, willing Merlin to speak.

“Talk to me, for Christ’s sake.” Arthur searches Merlin’s face for clues, finding none. “Merlin?”

He’s not sure which of them is shaking the most.

Eventually, Arthur drops his hand. There’s a livid thumbprint beneath Merlin’s chin. Arthur ignores the urge to soothe it away, but a vice is squeezing his chest, making it difficult to speak. He forces the words out past the constriction in his throat.

“We’re finished,” he says, not recognizing his own voice. He pushes at Merlin’s chest, harder than he means to. Merlin, caught by surprise, goes sprawling onto the floor, but still doesn’t speak, shielding his eyes with the back of his hand instead. “Don’t bother getting in touch again.”

 

***

***

It’s been a week. A week of tenterhooks. A whole week of being on edge, springing to her feet every time there’s even the slightest thing out of the ordinary. Gwen doesn’t want the sword to be lifted, and dreads to think what will happen to whatever poor boy has the dubious honour of succeeding, but at the same time she’ll go mad if something doesn’t happen soon.

From her vantage point on a dais in the corner of the hall, she watches the steady queue of young hopefuls that snakes around the corner of the museum, stretches down Exhibition Road and extends almost to the corner of Hyde Park. Each time another one grasps the hilt, she tenses, biting her lip. It would be so easy to damage the delicate fabric of the meteorite; just one brittle fracture, and the object would be irrevocably changed.

But so far, not one of them has been able to dislodge the sword from its resting place.

“It distresses you, doesn’t it.” Morgana’s hand closes over hers. “The fate of the meteorite.”

Gwen nods and pulls a face. “I know it’s just an object, but it’s older than humanity itself. Forged in the core of a planet and cooled over millions of years.” She shrugs. “It deserves respect.”

“I understand.” Morgana twiddles the bracelet that she’s wearing. It’s a replica of the one that Morgause gave her. But unlike the original, it has no uncanny taint of magic, because Gwen’s brother Elyan fashioned this one from pewter and amber. Morgana says that it gives her peace because Gwen gave it to her.

There’s some sort of painful secret eating away at Morgana. Leon and Gwen both know that it’s something to do with the bracelet— the other one, the one that Gwen has locked in a leaded vessel back in the lab— but she doesn’t want to press. Now that Morgana is no longer in line for the throne, she does seem to be a little less anxious. But although she wears the best make-up, no foundation can disguise the darkness that haunts her eyes when she thinks no-one is looking.

While they watch, a cocky white boy with forward-combed hair and a skinny tie strugs forward and grasps the hilt of the sword. He looks up and winks at the ladies on the dais.

“Watch this, ladies,” he calls, with a bright grin and a swagger. “Destiny, innit!” He tugs the hilt with both hands.

Gwen rolls her eyes and sends up a silent prayer that he won’t succeed. Unsurprisingly, her prayers are answered and the oaf descends empty-handed back into the group of catcalling friends that he came from.

“Has it been like this all weekend?” Over on Morgana’s other side, Leon looks across at Gwen.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Gwen sighs. “It seems that it’s too much to hope for, that eighteen-year-old boys should suddenly develop into mature adults. Who would have guessed?”

Morgana swallows. Leon’s gaze follows the movement of her throat. For a moment, Gwen wishes that she could spark such devotion in someone as sweet and kind and _loyal_ as Leon. But if anyone deserves to be loved unequivocally, it’s Morgana.

***

***

“Mum?” Arthur dismounts from his bike and hurls it to the floor, not bothering to hide the noise. What’s the point? It’s all over, anyway. There won’t be any more need or subterfuge, not now that whatever it was that he had with Merlin is gone. He feels hollow, and his bones ache. Darkness drags at him. He longs for the comforting sound of his mother’s voice, her embrace, the softness of her jumper against his face.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of the lost, panicked expression in Merlin’s eyes, the pallor of Merlin’s skin as Arthur shouted and shouted.

And now Arthur has left him.

He wishes he’d never found that sword. A flash of insight tells him that he has discarded the greater treasure, and misery washes over him, a black tide engulfing him.

It is a moment or two before he realises that the door of the house is open and hanging off its hinges. Something is wrong.

“Mum?” Heart thumping, Arthur steps over the threshold. There isn’t a sound. Normally when he comes in, he can hear something. The clatter of pans in the kitchen, the insistent blaring telly, sometimes an appreciative yip from Toby or the low murmur of conversation that alerts him that his mother is preparing breakfast. And then, sometimes, if Kay’s not being a lazy shite, the radio in Kay’s room. But today, the house is silent, and the sun is high. When he checks his phone, he’s shocked to see that it is already 9.15.

Not knowing why, Arthur grabs his trusty old cricket bat from behind the door before he tiptoes down the hallway, eyes darting about, ears pricked.

A cold draught blows in. It raises bumps on his skin. He shivers as he slips along, feet silent on the floorboards.

He opens his mouth to call for his mother. But then the wind whispers in through the front door and the trees. It’s as if it is warning him to keep quiet. He presses his lips together and creeps towards the kitchen.

As he approaches, he hears a steady drip-drip-dripping. With horror, he sees that a dark puddle of water is emerging from beneath the kitchen door. Summoning every ounce of courage, Arthur grips his bat with both hands. He kicks out at the door, bat held high.

There’s a faint, distressed sound coming from his mother, who is sitting on the floor with her back to his father. She’s awake, but Father’s head is dragging low onto his chest. Both of them are gagged. The kitchen tap is running. It has overwhelmed the overflow and cold water is cascading onto the floor. Swiftly, Arthur strides across the room to turn it off. 

Toby, poor dear Toby, lies stretched out in a broken heap of matted, bloody fur on the floor.

“Toby! No!” He hardly has time to register this horrible sight when his mum makes that sound again.

“Mum!” Arthur hastens to her, grabbing a knife to pull away the dirty rag that’s stuffed into her mouth. “Dad! What happened. Dad? Dad!”

“They hit him,” says Finna, her mouth a distressed line. “Undo me quickly, Arthur, so I can examine him, and then call the police and an ambulance.” She’s holding herself together, but barely. He can hear it in the tremor of her voice. See it in the way that her hands shake as he unties her.

“God, Mum.” Arthur can’t believe it. “God, oh, God. Toby... Dad…! Who would do this?”

“Oh, Arthur,” she chokes. “I wish we’d told you before. There is so much that you need to know. But, oh God.” A sob escapes her. “There was nothing I could do. They had magic, they silenced us somehow. The man, he was so cruel. Oh, Arthur. Poor dear Hector!” She massages her wrists; they’re raw and red, but not bleeding. Her hands, her doctor’s hands, are still unharmed, but she’s crying as if her heart might break.

If Arthur was unsettled before, by the sight of his father unconscious and his poor, innocent dog lying on the floor, the sight of his mother falling apart in front of him is enough to fill his heart with a heavy dread that pulls all the blood from his face. But he’s holding on, he’s keeping it all contained, even while he calls the emergency services and his mum fusses over his father, putting him in the recovery position before burying her face in her hands.

“Mum, hush. He’ll be all right.” Arthur folds her in his arms and rocks her gently. “The ambulance is on its way.”

“I know, but head injuries are tricky… and it’s not just that,” she whispers, her eyes brimming with tears. “We should have told you before, but now they think... and they’ve taken... Oh, God. And you don’t even know, oh, Arthur, I told Hector, I told him you needed to know, that it was wrong to keep it from you for so long, but he didn’t listen, he said it was safer if you didn’t… and now this has happened. Oh, God.”

“I don’t understand.” Why the hell wouldn’t people tell him things? Intermingled with his fear and fury at what had happened is the familiar frustration of being overlooked and denied. It makes him grind his teeth together as he bites out his words. “I’m seventeen, Mum, not five! I can handle stuff. What is it that you need to tell me? What’s happened? What’s been taken? Tell me! Tell me now!”

“It’s… I wanted to tell you, Arthur. You were so wanted, you must know that. And when Gaius brought you to us, I couldn’t say no. You were a blessing, and such a sweet little baby, my heart broke for what happened to your mother.”

“To my mother?” Arthur’s heart is in his throat and he swallows, but damn it it won’t budge.

“Yes. To Ygraine.”

“ _Ygraine?_ ” Arthur’s thoughts are whirling around so fast now that he feels giddy. “The old queen who died? But what’s she got to do with any— But the king said— She had a son.”

His words trail off as he tries to make sense of it. There has always been that odd disconnect between Arthur’s character and the rest of his quiet, bookish family. It has struck him before, so many times.

“I’m adopted.” And when he whispers it, it comes out as a statement, not a question. “I’m the lost prince. But he’s eighteen and I’m only…”

“We… disguised your true birth date, Arthur.” She sighs, her hair falling into her face. “You turned eighteen in January.”

“So. The people who did this… were looking for me?”

She nods. New lines have appeared around her eyes and her forehead overnight. It is as if she is aging before his eyes.

“But why didn’t they…?” His breath hitches and his own eyes feel hot. He blinks. “Why didn’t they wait?”

“It was— oh! Is that the police? At last!”

Far off down the lane, a siren wails. It’s about time, he thinks. He looks back at the woman who has raised him, full of kindness and tact and good old-fashioned common sense, and wonders what his childhood might have been like in some far-off, remote palace with a far-off, remote father, beset with grief and pain. Full of the trappings of privilege but with none of the messy, loving relationships that he has enjoyed. And in that one moment he realises how lucky he has been.

“I don’t care.” His throat works. This is his world, right here in this kitchen, and whoever has destroyed it will pay. “Not for them, not for the royals, not for any of it. This is my family. You’re my parents, in all the ways that matter. And Kay is my brother...”

“Oh, Arthur. And you are our son.” Her eyes soften then, but then her breath hitches. “My sons, my two sons, my world. Oh, God, Arthur.”

“What is it, Mum?” Concerned, he shifts back onto his heels so that he can look at her properly. “Mum?”

“It’s Kay.” Her face crumples, and it’s the most horrifying thing he’s ever seen.

“Kay? I don’t understand.” Arthur looks at her, really looks. He hasn’t thought about where his brother might be, not yet. After all, he should be in an exam right now. “He has his Further Maths…”

“No.” She’s shaking her head, breath coming in terrifying gasps. “No, you see, he didn’t go.”

“But he—” Arthur is about to say what a nerd Kay is, but Finna is shaking her head vehemently.

“No, Arthur,” she says, simply. Her lips are tugged down at the ends and her yes glisten wetly in the dim morning light. “They took him.” She draws in a shaky breath, and her voice stutters. “He told them that you were nothing to do with anything, that you are just his little brother and… they... they took... my boy. Kay. They think he’s the prince. They took Kay.”

And that’s when the bottom falls out of his world entirely.

***

_…the detailing on the iron plates implies the wings of a dragon…_

***

The murmur of conversation falls suddenly quiet. A shadow passes across the sun flooding through the windows of Hintze Hall, and the temperature drops suddenly. Gwen shivers.

“No!” Morgana’s half on her feet. “I don’t like this. It feels like…”

“Please, Your Highness.” Leon tugs at her arm. “Please sit down.”

“No, there’s something wrong. I can feel it.” Morgana gazes wildly at the high ceiling, turning her head this way and that. “Something is coming!”

Suddenly, the door bursts open. There’s a cacophony of screams and a loud, deep-throated snarl that Gwen can’t place for a moment, but then identifies as the roar of a motorbike. Or rather, several motor-bikes. Four of them, in fact. Security guards swarm around them but are thrown off as if by an invisible hand— or rather, they bounce off. It’s like they’re encountering some sort of invisible trampoline that flings them away; the faster they approach, the faster they rebound, making their efforts futile.

The motorbikes come to a halt in front of the dais, engines growling like caged beasts, their fumes filling the air. Gwen covers her nose with a scarf as one of the riders kills the noise and removes her helmet, shaking out blond curls across her black leathers, revealing a familiar pair of contemptuous, kohl-lined eyes.

“Morgause!” she whispers.

Two of the other three motorcyclists follow suit. One of them is the man she knows as Cenred, who smirks at her with such a greasy expression that she feels dirty all of a sudden. The other two are new to her. One of them looks no older than the rest of the boys in the room, who have all scattered, ushered away by security amid shouts and shrieks. A pair of dull eyes peep out at her from atop bruised cheek and his complexion seems waxy. The final motorcyclist is slight of build, similar to Morgause— Gwen thinks it might be another woman, but she can’t be sure with that helmet.

As Gwen watches, Morgause coaxes the boy forward. He stumbles for a moment, but then seems to calm down. And that’s when she notices that he’s wearing one of those bracelets.

The nugget of a suspicion is growing in her gut. Those bracelets. They seem to conveniently adorn everyone that Morgause gets close to. Everyone that she _controls._

“Madam, you can not bring vehicles into the museum.” It’s George, whose face is a picture of righteous indignation.

Morgause smirks at him and holds out a hand. He tumbles, struggling, to the floor, holding his hand to his throat.

“How lovely to see you, Morgana,” purrs Morgause, ignoring the effect that this display of Darth-Vader-ish mind control powers is having on the assembled crowds.

“I wish I could say the same,” retorts Morgana.

“Come, come, sister.” Morgause mounts the steps, tugging the glassy-eyed youth in her wake. “Surely you must be dying to meet your brother! Come, boy. Tell your sister your name”

She pushes the boy, who tumbles and sprawls at her feet like a puppet whose strings have been cut. When he looks up, his eyes are blank and vacant.

“Kay Wildforest,” he says in a monotone.

With a shock, Gwen realises that his lips are swollen and his cheekbones bruised. The reason for this becomes obvious when Morgause kicks him hard in the face.

“Your real name,” she spits out, “is Prince Arthur Pendragon. You were adopted. As your sister has failed, I have brought you here to pull the sword from the stone, reclaim your birthright, and restore magic to the land.”

“Yes,” says Prince Arthur. He smiles, but the expression does not reach his eyes. “I remember.”

She kicks him again. Gwen winces as Morgause’s boot connects with his face and he tumbles back to the floor.

“Yes, what?” she says in a soft voice.

“Yes, Mistress,” he says, blinking slowly.

That shadow passes across the window again. Outside, the distant wail of sirens heralds the arrival of the emergency services.

“And then what will you do?” Morgause adds.

“Kill the king with it.”

“Good boy,” purrs Morgause, her hand curling protectively around his head. He leans into it slightly, an expression of adoration flashing across his face.

Gwen feels sick. She reaches out to clutch at Morgana’s hand. With a shock, she realises that Morgana is trembling violently.

Prince Arthur lurches to his feet and limps forward to grasp the hilt of the sword. There’s a flash, and the room goes dark for a second. Gwen blinks, momentarily blinded. When her vision clears, he is standing with a sword held triumphantly above his head.

“Behold the crown prince!” cries Morgause.

But there’s something wrong with Gwen’s eyes; when she tries to look at the scar where the sword left the meteorite, she sees only a sea of grey. She rubs her eyes, but the object is no clearer. It looks greasy, somehow, and sort of writhing, as if it’s trying to evade her gaze.

“Morgana,” she whispers. “Morgana, there’s something wrong.”

“I know.” Morgana’s forehead is marred by a single deep crease between her brows and her eyes dart about as if seeking answers. “But I don’t know what it is. I can’t _see_ it.”

The sword looks wrong, too. The one that Gwen had examined, although well preserved, had been tarnished and had notches along the blade. It had runemarks on it and the hilt was bejewelled but dull from centuries of burial in peat. But this sword... this sword was shiny and unmarked, its blade glinting in the sunlight that entered the gallery through the high arched windows.

“It’s not the same sword,” whispers Gwen.

“I’m not sure it’s even real,” Morgana whispers back. “I can see through it, if I… if I concentrate…”

“Come, Arthur,” Morgause purrs. “We must go to the king.”

“We’ve got to stop her. Leon?” Morgana looks around but Leon is nowhere to be seen. “Leon?”

“Wait,” whispers the boy through bloodless lips. He’s looking straight at Morgana. A puzzled frown line appears between his eyes. “This is not right. My name is not Arthur. I’m Kay Wildforest! This does not belong to me. Surely it belongs to the princess!”

“Now!” thunders the witch, reaching out a hand to him. “Do as you are told, boy!”

Black tendrils of enchantment extend from her fingers. Where they touch him, livid scorch marks appear upon his skin. He falls to his knees, back arching, and lets out an agonised scream that pierces Gwen’s heart.

Out of the corner of her eye, Gwen senses rather than sees movement. She lets her eyes flick left and then back. Most of the security team are lying unconscious upon the floor, but one of them, she thinks it might be Leon, is creeping towards the witch. She tears her gaze away, not wanting to draw attention to the movement.

“No!” whispers Prince Arthur— or is his name Kay? “This is yours!”

Lurching back up to his feet, he staggers, slowly as if wading through water, or pushing against something, towards Morgana. Reaching out with the sword, he lays it before her.

“Fool!” screeches the witch. “You’ll break the enchantment!”

But it’s too late. The sword seems to become invisible, and then with a sort of sizzling sound it disappears altogether.

Gwen gasps. She can see the meteorite clearly again. The original sword is still firmly stuck into it. The fake one has vanished.

“Did you think you could fool me with a fake sword?” With an incredulous laugh, Morgana turns to Morgause. “This is the wrong boy! He’s brave though, and too strong for you...”

“No!” cries Morgause, her arm still outstretched.

There’s a loud crack. Strands of an uncanny greenish light spring from her hands. They hit the boy’s chest and radiate out around his body in sick-looking spirals, like a web. Arthur— Kay— lets out a horrible scream, hands clawing at the air.

“Stop it!” cries Gwen. Inspired by Kay’s bravery, she struggles against the magic that holds her paralysed. Abruptly, it releases her from its grip. She staggers forwards towards him and holds onto him. The greasy touch of Morgause’s magic envelops her, cloaking her in pain. Pushing it away with her outrage, Gwen lowers him gently to the floor. He sits with his back against the plinth. A drop of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth.

“Please,” he whispers, so quietly that Gwen can hardly hear his voice. “Help me.”

He lifts an imploring hand. The bracelet upon his arm glows an angry orange. There’s a smell of scorched flesh. From between bruised lips emerges a tiny whimpering sound. The sound makes something clench in Gwen’s gut. Eager to help, she leans forward to grasp the bracelet. It burns her fingers. She drops his arm with a hiss of pain.

“Please!” he whispers again. “I don’t want to be king. I don’t want to kill anybody. The sword belongs to the crown princess. By right, the crown is hers. Please!”

With an implacable twist of her jaw, Morgause stretches out her hand again and starts to incant.

“Leave him alone, you monster!” cries Gwen.

Grabbing her cardigan, she bends forward and wraps it round Kay’s arm, tugging at the bracelet. The fabric bursts into flames, and she flings it away, fire and bracelet and all.

“Useless boy.” Morgause dives after it, but trips and sprawls to the ground, cursing. “No matter. The boy is right. I know someone far better. Braver. Less likely to fall prey to her stupid conscience.”

She beckons with her outstretched hand. The bracelet flies into her grasp. It must still be burning hot, but she doesn’t even cry out. Her smile as she stands is small and triumphant.

“No!” Morgana’s face is deathly white, her mouth a rosebud. She shakes her head. “No, I won’t.”

There’s something mesmeric, almost hypnotic in the air. It’s thick and heavy, like summer. Gwen’s eyes start to close. All she can hear is Morgause’s voice. Her fingertips burn with an intense heat where she touched the bracelet.

“Now, sister,” Morgause purrs, low-voiced and seductive, head coyly on one side. She holds out the bracelet. “Come. Give me your hand. You know you want to.” She’s walking towards Morgana now, putting one small foot in front of the other, edging ever closer. “It’s not as if you haven’t done it before.” She’s only a couple of feet away from Morgana, now. “How hard can it be?”

Morgana shakes her head, but she looks uncertain.

“It wasn’t you, my lady.” Through the fog of magic and glamour that clouds the air, Leon’s voice sounds small and brittle and very, very far away. “Just remember. I showed you. The fingerprints prove it. You didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t?” Morgana looks so small and frightened for a moment.

Gwen just wants to comfort her. But her legs feel heavy again. And the pain in her hand is growing, extending from the tips up the fingers towards her palm.

“Of course you did it,” hisses Morgause. “But if you just put this on, the dreams that plague you will stop… get rid of that pathetic replica. Only the real thing will do. You know it will, sister. Come, dear one. Let me give you peace...”

“No,” insists Leon.

“Ignore the imbecile.” Morgause’s expression intensifies and her eyes never leave Morgana’s face. “Only I can help you.”

There’s an infinite heartbeat in which Gwen stays mesmerised, and then…

“You! ” Morgana lifts a trembling finger and points accusingly at Morgause. “It was you all along. You did it! You killed Eira and made me think… you made me think…”

“Oh, please.” Morgause’s face mouth twists up into a feral sneer. “You wanted to do it. You can’t deny it…” she edges forward with the bracelet, hand extended. “No wonder the guilt has been eating you up…”

“Leave it, you controlling bitch,” yells Morgana. She slaps Morgause hard in the face, sending her sprawling to the floor, and then stamps viciously on Morgause’s fingers so that she releases the bracelet.

Spinning on her arse, Gwen kicks it away. It flies off into a corner with a tinkling sound. But not far enough. She can still see it, glowing amber as if lit from within by some esoteric power.

“You had better be careful, sister,” cries Morgause, cradling her hand. “I know things about you.”

“Spare me your lies,” sneers Morgana. “It was all you all along. And you let me think I did it, all this time.”

Suddenly Morgause makes a grab for Morgana’s ankle. But Morgana’s too quick; she feigns a kick and then dances back. With a howl, Morgause springs to her feet with an ugly snarl, and lunges for the bracelet.

Distantly Gwen hears someone screaming. “Fire!”

But a shadow leaps up from the floor and tackles Morgause to the ground, yelling, “Oh no you don’t!”

Leon!

“Leon!” yells Gwen, heart in her mouth. “Look out!” Because while Morgause is still struggling to get free of Leon’s grip, Cenred is already starting to get up.

“Don’t worry about me, see to the boy!” Leon yells back. “Where are the security team? Bors? Gareth? Bring the bastards down!”

As Leon issues instructions, an opportunistic security guard attacks the flaming garment with a fire extinguisher, while another one bowls into Cenred and brings him to his knees. The fire alarm suddenly starts to sound, shrill and deafening.

Painfully, Gwen pushes herself up to her knees.

Kay lies prone on the floor. His skin is red and raw where the bracelet touched him. Horrible tendrils of inflamed skin extend out from the wound, up his arm. Towards his heart. But his eyes are clear. They widen as he looks at Morgana, propping himself up on one elbow. Her hair is in wild disarray as she stands, panting, with one triumphant foot balanced on Morgause’s chest.

“You really are the princess!” he manages to stutter, “God. You’re even more gorgeous in real life.” But then his eyes roll up into his head and he flops to the ground, unconscious.

“Oh, you poor boy.” Gwen feels for a pulse with a trembling finger from her good hand. He’s breathing, and his pulse is steady, but the thin veins of angry scarlet already extend beyond his elbows into his upper arm. He needs medical treatment, and quickly. Plus her own hand is darkening. The magical shock that she received from the bracelet makes her injured hand throb in pulsing waves that echo the thumping of her heart.

With her good hand, she carefully arranges the boy in the recovery position. When she accidentally touches him with her bad hand, a jolt of pain makes black spots appear before her eyes like bruises.

But then the air is suddenly thick, and there’s a faint metallic taste in her mouth. The deafening blast of the alarm mutes to a distant low jangle. Gwen tries to move but finds herself paralysed again.

Magic.

Her eyes dart about. Everyone else is motionless, too. Except...

“Enough of this brawling.” says a new voice. “Princess Morgana, release my acolyte, Morgause.” A woman in motorcycle leathers stalks forward, taking a moment to give Cenred a hefty jab in the ribs before.coming to stand in front of Morgana.

The fourth motorcyclist.

“Over my dead body,” hisses Morgana.

“That can be arranged.” With a sneer and a negligent flick of her wrist, she sends a dart of light towards Morgana’s chest.

Morgana lets out a whimper and clutches her chest, stumbling backwards.

“Morgana!” cries Gwen.

Morgause casts Gwen a venomous glare before getting up onto her feet, lithe like a cat. She bows before the fourth motorcyclist.

“High Priestess,” Morgause says. “What would you have me do?”

“Come with me. Bring the boy,” says the High Priestess. She still has her helmet on. It muffles her voice but there’s a low menace to it that makes Gwen’s guts twist. She is diminutive, as small as Gwen, and her eyes are huge and blue, but somehow cold and lifeless.

“No, you bloody well won’t!” yells another new voice close by, right next to the meteorite. Gwen wishes she could look up to see the man it belongs to. “What the hell have you done to my brother, witch?”

At that moment, Gwen’s charge starts to stir. His eyes flicker open.

“Arthur?” he whispers. An incredulous smile tugs at his lips. "Arthur!"

“Hold on, Kay,” yells Arthur. “I’ve come to take you home!”

High and clear above the sirens and the screaming, there’s a sudden metallic ringing sound. It silences everyone in the room. The cacophony of the struggle reduces to this single, fine point of harmony. The scientific part of her brain identifies the noise as one of steel sliding on stone. The sword! Someone has taken it!

"Who is he?" she says, wondering. 

"He's my brother," says Kay. "Arthur. God. Mum is going to be so mad." 

She still can’t move her head, but if she looks out of the corner of her eye she can see a golden-haired youth, incandescent with self-righteous anger, brandishing the weapon above his head. The meteorite appears suddenly unblemished. She feels like cheering.

But as she watches, the self-styled High Priestess directs a dart of something that flashes blue and sizzles as it strikes the newcomer’s hand. The sword glows, and he drops it with a cry. It clatters to the ground. He clutches his sword hand, holding it close to his chest.

“Ah,” the Priestess says. She strolls over to pick up the object. It flashes in her the sunlight as she turns it over and over. “So you’re the true heir. Even better! I love the smell of patricide in the morning.”

“Give me back my sword!” he yells, struggling as if with invisible bonds, teeth bared in fury.

“Very well,” says the High Priestess. “It’s a pretty thing, I’ll grant you that. All right. I will give you the sword, young man. And in return you will do something for me.”

"Never! It was you, wasn't it? You hurt my dad, you—” But whatever he was going to say is cut off, and there’s a loud thud as he tumbles senseless to the floor. Morgause is standing over him, a large, heavy-looking box in her hand.

“Arthur!” cries Kay. “Arthur! No!”

Lightning flashes, and high overhead there’s a sudden crack of thunder. The lights flicker. It goes black. There’s a deafening noise as motorcycles growl. A dense fog descends over Gwen’s vision.

When the lights come back on again, the motorcyclists have gone. And they have taken Arthur with them, sword and all.

In the sudden brief silence, Gwen blinks at the meteorite— now whole and unblemished as if the sword had never existed. Suddenly, she realises that all the pain in her fingers has gone. Exclaiming out loud, she turns to tell Morgana. But in their haste, Morgause and company have left a motorbike behind - the one that the first boy, Kay, had been riding. And Morgana is now sitting astride it, grim faced, fixing a discarded helmet purposefully to her head. Leon gets on behind her.

“Don’t worry, Gwen,” Morgana says, grimly. “We’ll get the sword back. And my little brother, too. The real one. You look after the fake. He’s a brave one.”

“Morgana, no,” gasps Gwen, but there’s nothing she can do.

With a sudden kick, the motorcycle roars into life, and Morgana and Leon are gone, leaving only the stench of exhaust fumes in their wake.

The hall erupts into pandemonium.

***

***

Merlin is losing track of time. He should probably go, but his legs feel like lead. What’s the point? Lethargy casts a shroud over him. Dusk is falling, or is that just the deep gloom of the rainclouds? Violent shivers wrack his spare frame. Gaius will admonish him when he gets home, for staying out in a storm without his coat, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Kilgharrah!” Merlin sobs out the dragon’s name. “Kilgharrah, it’s over.” He leans back against the stone wall of the ruined chapel, not caring that the rain is cascading over his face, down onto the path, making muddy rivulets across the gravel.

The dragon doesn’t answer at first, but Merlin can tell he’s listening. Their link has grown stronger of late. Kilgharrah can hear his thoughts over some distance when Merlin wants him to.

 _“What is it now, young warlock?”_ Kilgharrah’s voice is disdainful. _“I sense that you are distressed.”_

“It’s all over!” Merlin swallows. “I failed! Arthur’s gone, he doesn’t want to see me any more, the sword is gone, Arthur’s...” He clutches at his chest, rubbing circles over to try to release the ache that is building there, without success. “And the worst thing is… the worst thing is that I can’t bring myself to care, not about the sword, not about the magic users who tried to steal it… I just… I just want him back.”

His vision blurs as he runs over the way that Arthur smiles, the way it pinches the corners of his eyes into enchanted almond-shapes, and he has to bite his lip for a moment.

 _“You must pull yourself together,”_ admonishes Kilgharrah. “ _You and Arthur must fulfil your destiny together.”_

“Little chance of that,” says Merlin. He picks up a handful of gravel and flicks individual stones with his fingertips. “When he hates me and won’t even speak to me.” Pulling his lips together, he draws up his knees to his chest and shivers.

 _“A half can never truly hate that which makes him whole,”_ says Kilgharrah. _“You must swallow your pride and be reconciled. It has been foretold. Only you and Arthur can defeat those who would jeopardise Albion’s future. Even now, dark clouds amass over London. The dark magic rises. Can you not sense it?”_

Trembling, Merlin swallows down a bitter retort. Instead, he reaches out with a tentative strand of magic. Suddenly a bright spark of pain shoots through his skull and he returns to himself. He leaps to his feet, heart pounding.

“Arthur!” he cries, looking wildly about himself. “Arthur is hurt. He’s in danger. Oh, God, Kilgharrah! They’ve found… I must…”

There’s a faint popping sound at the edge of his hearing, as of a champagne cork, and a shadow materialises at his left shoulder.

“Come, young warlock.” A gnarled reptilian snout nuzzles at Merlin’s sodden shoulder. “Let us go to him. It is time. I sense it.”

***

***

Arthur blinks.

Pain.

Darkness and pain.

A high, screaming note pierces his ear, at once both deafeningly loud and too quiet to latch on to.

A fog of sadness, and above it all the ever-present agony that shoots through his skull like a thousand searing-hot knives.

Merlin. Where is Merlin? Who is Merlin?

Nausea, cramping, and pain.

Kay! Who is Kay? Is he dead? Turning onto his side, Arthur vomits.

Time passes.

Darkness.

***

_…perfect lines and a cadence that echoes in Arthur’s mind like the distant thunder of battle…_

***

Arthur blinks, tensing. His nostrils flare; there’s a pervading odour of stale urine and disinfectant, mixed with the sick taint of vomit, and his face is pressed into something hard and cold.

Someone is having an argument, right above his head, and the sound of their voices splits his skull in two. He wants to tell them to stop shouting, to be quiet, can’t they see he’s trying to sleep? But his lips won’t part and his eyes won’t stay open and his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth.

As the bickering continues, Arthur mentally inventories his injuries. His head is still throbbing and his arms are twisted behind his back. His wrists ache. There’s a burning sensation ringing one of them. When he cautiously tries to move his feet, he realises that they are tied together too. He’s lying prone upon the floor.

Over everything is the acrid stench of vomit.

“Look, High Priestess. He moved. Is he awake?” It’s a woman speaking. He recognises her voice. He doesn’t know who she is, but her speech means pain is coming. He stills, willing his body to stop cramping and his eyes to stay closed and his limbs to relax.

“No.” The other voice is also of a woman, someone he does not know. She speaks softly, but her words are hard. “Cenred hit him too fucking hard. He’s an idiot. Can’t you rein your pets in better, Morgause? This one is beginning to get on my nerves.”

There’s a sound of purposeful steps—one, two, three. A man lets out a sudden hoarse cry. Abruptly, the cry cuts off, replaced by a broken sort of groan.

“Cenred is expendable,” says the first voice, and now Arthur _remembers_.

When the memories start flooding back, Arthur doesn’t know whether to be relieved that his head injury hasn’t entirely robbed him of thought, or horrified at his predicament. Morgause. Her name is Morgause. He remembers her. From the museum, and before that. She has been watching him. Her and that goon of a boyfriend. At football matches. But who is the other woman that’s arguing with her?

Then he remembers what they did to his parents, and poor dear Toby. And Kay. Kay lying on the floor, groaning while blood seeped from the corner of his bruised mouth. All because he’d tried to protect Arthur. Something inside him tightens; a stern resolve. Kay, his nerdy brother, doesn’t deserve that. They will pay for what they have done. But first, he has to get out of here.

He opens one eye. Someone is standing directly in front of his face; sturdy, black boots stand on bare concrete. Without moving his head, his field of view is limited. Beyond them, maybe two metres away, lie a pair of twisted, leather-clad legs. A dark shadow lies beneath them. When he blinks again, it has grown.

Fear stabs into him when he identifies it as pooling blood.

But no matter how much he squints, he sees no clues about where he is, and nothing that might help him escape.

“We need him to wake up, Morgause. Word will have got out by now. All the police in the capital will be looking for us. Unless you make him do it soon, we’ll be captured.”

“They’ll never think to look here.” Morgause’s voice is calm. “This basement is derelict; no-one comes here. But perhaps you are right. The sooner we act, the better. Wake up, boy!”

There is a footstep, barely a tap on the floor, and then a sudden burning sensation starts to radiate from the ring of fire that circles his wrist. It spreads up his arm and jolts into his chest. But he makes himself slump back to the floor again, limbs knocking on cold concrete.

“He’s still out cold.” She sounds disgusted. “This is all your fault, Cenred, you worm.”

There’s a sudden howl of pain, broken off by a horrible wet gurgle.

What are they going to make him do?

Desperately he tries to gather his scattered thoughts together to form some sort of coherent plan. But nothing comes to him. He clenches his jaw to stop it from trembling. But no matter how hard he squeezes his eyelids together, his frustrations still leak out between his lashes.

“Let’s just check over the plans one more time,” she says. The woman sounds like she could be having a conversation about which curtains to choose. She’s so horribly calm and matter-of-fact. “Security is neutralized?”

“We have a man on the inside, High Priestess,” says Morgause.

“And what about the little princeling’s boyfriend? He has magic. He put the sword in the stone.”

Merlin. He did. It was Arthur’s sword. The sudden clench in Arthur’s stomach reminds him of the look on Merlin’s face when they fought. How he wishes he could take back those words, now.

 _Merlin_ , he whispers in a hidden corner of his mind. _Merlin, can you hear me? I’m so, so sorry. You were trying to protect me as well, you idiot. All these people hiding things from me. Why couldn’t you just tell me? Merlin? Merlin!_

A small part of him imagines Merlin, distant and beloved, hearing his mental cry like a prayer.

_I hear you, Arthur. I am coming._

There’s a sudden sense of hope and longing. It aches, more deeply and more unbearably than the searing burn that scalds his arm and stabs into his chest in response to Morgause’s angry bursts of magic.

Only to be dashed right away when Morgause replies with total confidence. “He won’t bother us.”

“But he is strong, you say?”

“Yes, an instinctive magic user. I think he might be Balinor’s son…” says Morgause. “The one that the traitors Balinor and Hunith hid from us, somehow. It is a shame. He would have been a valuable asset. But don’t worry about him. He will not discover us, High Priestess. The bracelet will see to that.”

“You have done well, Morgause. Now let us see what the bracelet can do.”

Pain flashes around Arthur’s arm, so sudden and intense that he can’t help crying out. The faint spark of hope that had glowed in his chest fizzles out and fades to black despair.

**

***

High above the patchwork fields of south-east England, a shadow swoops, neck outstretched, wings set firm as it rides in on the westerly wind like an avenging angel. Astride its back sits the warlock, his eyes flashing gold as his mind examines the distant ground, searching for clues, for the trace of his beloved among the huddled buildings far below. Dense mists swirl around them – opaque but insubstantial, a curtain of moisture that screens them from view.

“It’s no bloody good.”

Of all the senses that Merlin has discovered in himself, his ability to find things that he cares about is the strongest. Some objects seem to just call to him. He’s been scanning his vicinity for traces of Arthur, but they have petered out. There’s a sort of general Arthurishness hovering around London but he can’t pinpoint it further.

“Can you find the other half of your soul?” Kilgharrah’s voice rumbles beneath Merlin’s thighs.

“No,” Merlin replies somewhere deep in his own mind, frustration bubbling up in his chest, black and treacly. “He’s alive. But I can’t sense where. He’s everywhere and nowhere.”

The wind in his ears is too loud to communicate through actual speech, but his mental link with Kilgharrah has, if anything, strengthened. But he can’t find Arthur. When he sends his mind out to probe, it encounters a thick, dense fog, as if something or someone is blocking him.

Without warning, Kilgharrah dips to the left, banking with a sudden swoop that makes Merlin’s stomach leap up to his throat.

“Whoa!” he cries out loud. He clutches Kilgharrah’s back with cold, clammy fingers.

Kilgharrah chuckles. “Hold on with your magic, young warlock. It won’t let you fall.”

“Give me a warning next time! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Airliner,” says Kilgharrah laconically. “Better to suffer a little discomfort than be sucked into a jet engine. Now hold on tight; there may be some turbulence in the slipstream.”

Sure enough, there’s a distant but growing whooshing noise and a high pitched droning that signifies the approach of a large aircraft. They’re too close to Heathrow. Merlin scowls but checks the wards he’s set around them just to make sure that they are still invisible to radar. Visible-light-spectrum cloaking is more tricky, but hopefully with the glamour he has cast, all but the most penetrating magic users will just see an unusually large drone.

Albeit a drone that is entering Heathrow’s airspace, and therefore subject to being shot down by the RAF if spotted.

From nowhere, a sudden dart of pain and despair shoots through him. He hisses out loud.

“Arthur!” he cries.

At the edge of perception he feels rather than hears Arthur crying out for him. There’s a slim ray of golden light before him, certain and bright, leading him on, and he knows he’s on the right track. Arthur! But as suddenly as it had come, the light flickers and winks out. Arthur is in pain, and in trouble. Merlin must get to him and quickly.

“Hurry, Kilgharrah,” yells Merlin, all pain and fatigue forgotten. “Hurry!”

“I’m going as fast as I can, young warlock.” Kilgharrah swoops, wings pulled in tight to his side. Merlin shuts his eyes against the force of the wind.

The noise is getting louder now. Deafeningly loud. The airliner must almost be upon them. Eyes opening, Merlin gazes wildly about, but they are in cloud, and he cannot see it yet. For it to be this low, they must be close to Heathrow. The clouds part for a second. Far below, through cotton-y scraps of white, Merlin can make out the shapes of buildings, suburban houses crammed in together. Ranks upon ranks of parked cars. A motorway snaking through it all.

“Here it comes!” cries Kilgharrah. “I’m going lower.”

Shivering, and not just from the cold, Merlin double checks the wards again and braces himself for the inevitable buffeting. As the dragon turns down towards the treetops, the aircraft’s screams are like a banshee wailing. A wall of air slams into them both. Merlin’s magic weaves about them in protective strings but it doesn’t stop Merlin from biting his tongue and squeezing Kilgharrah’s knobbly back so hard that all the blood drains from his fingers, leaving them white and numb.

“Too cold,” he cries, despairing. “I can’t hold on.”

He crouches low as Kilgharrah’s wings fight the air, battling to keep them aloft, whipping about in the gusts that toss them this way and that. Nausea rises in his gorge. His magic is spread too thin. It’s trying to find Arthur, and hold on, and hide, and protect, and shield him from the ever-present wind that makes his eyes water and his ears and fingers and nose numb from the cold. He can’t breathe. The wind sucks the air from his lungs. It’s all too much. Black dots appear before Merlin’s eyes.

Far below them, there is a deep booming sound. Kilgharrah dodges. A streak of light passes them, too fast to follow. Realization hits him together with a sudden gut-clenching terror.

“They’re shooting at us,” Merlin says, legs trembling with the effort of holding on.

“Ah, young warlock.” Kilgharrah, damn him, laughs, sending deep vibrations rolling through Merlin’s body, still shaking and bloodless with adrenaline. “This is more fun than I’ve had in centuries. Hold on tight!”

***

_…bulging hunch of his earphones… like Princess Leia’s bunched hair braids…_

***


	5. I will be your treasure

Morgana crouches forward and low as she weaves through a dense jam of cabs and buses. The drone of the traffic and the heavy growl of the bike deafen her. Leon shouts something. He’s holding on to the grab bar behind him, lined up against her back, crouched low for streamlining. At each bend in the road, he leans with her, not a dead weight but instead an active participant in the drive. It feels natural, as if they’ve rehearsed this together. Unable to make out his words, she’s nonetheless grateful for his steady presence, warm and sturdy against her back.

Her jaw tenses as she focuses on dodging opening doors. She pauses for a red light, and the sound of the engine drops. Way off in the distance the wail of a siren cuts through the low hum of the idling machine.

“They’re coming after us,” shouts Leon into the sudden lull. “Where are you headed?”

“I don’t know,” Morgana yells over her shoulder. The light turns amber, and she revs the engine, giving a heavy burst of throttle before starting forward, lifting her feet. She clutches grimly to the handlebars. There’s a distant trace of Morgause; she can sense where her sister has gone. It is too faint already; she’ll lose it if she doesn’t concentrate. She kicks down Knightsbridge and approaches Hyde Park Corner slowly, cursing when a tourist overtakes her on a Boris Bike. And that’s where all traces of Morgause vanish.

Frowning, she closes her eyes for a moment at the next set of lights, before heading off up Park Lane. But it’s wrong, she knows it is. Her sixth sense tells her that Morgause will not be found in the park, nor one of the five star hotels that line its eastern boundary.

Frustrated, she pulls over into a lay-by behind a tourist coach and kills the engine.

“I can’t feel her any more,” she says. She pulls off her helmet, and shakes out her hair.

“Then we’ll just have to use our heads.” Leon, ever practical, dismounts and does the same thing, running a hand across his scalp and shaking out his strawberry blond curls. “Where would Morgause go if she was wanting to hide a kidnap victim?”

“I don’t know!” wails Morgana.

“What does Morgause want to do? Think, Morgana!”

“I am thinking!” She needs to do something and quickly. The frustration makes her voice shrill.

“Look.” Leon holds out a hand to help her off her bike. “It’s no good chasing our own tails. We need to think. What is her ultimate aim? What has she been striving for? She has shown that she is ruthless, she will stop at nothing to meet her ends. What are those ends? Let’s work that out, and then we can think back from there.”

“I don't know!” cries Morgana, without taking his hand or dismounting, because she wants to go, damn it. She wants to follow Morgause and yell at her and get her to _explain_. The sting of betrayal is sharp in her gut. She feels nauseous. 

“Think! What does she want? Why did she kill Eira and frame you?” Leon looks grave. His voice is gentle. Always so gentle. But he is ruthless with his words. 

Morgana isn’t sure. She’s not sure at all. Up until a few hours ago, she had thought herself responsible for Eira’s murder. And that Morgause was her sister, her therapist, her friend. And now… now she doesn’t know what to think. Everything is such a jumble.

“Oh, God. Eira.” A sob escapes her and she passes a hand across her eyes. “I couldn’t bear her. But I didn’t want that. Oh. And my own sister. No. Oh.” She’s helpless in the face of the emotions that make her ribs judder and her eyes mist over. She hates being helpless. Hates it!

“Hush, Morgana.” Leon folds his arms around her and rocks her. She sobs like a baby, not sure what else to do. “Hush. It might not have been all her fault. There was another woman. What did she want? Who is she? Hush. It’s all right.”

After a few moments, she feels calmer. Leon’s hands are describing careful circles on her scalp as he soothes her.

“The High Priestess? She wants power,” says Morgana at last in a voice that she tries hard not to let tremble. “She wants magic users to be safe, but... but it’s more than that... more… she… she wants to control non-magic users. Most of all, she wants… oh!”

She stares at Leon, unable to voice the terrible thought.

“What is it?” he says, merciless in his kindness.

“I know where she will go,” she whispers. “We need to turn around. We’ve got no time to lose.”

“Let me call the—”

“No.” She catches his wrist before he can extract his phone from his pocket. “It’s no good. The police can’t help us here. They’ll just make things worse. We need something else. We need magic. I must go.” She jams her helmet back on, flicking down the visor on her helmet. “Stay here,” she cries.

“No.” He’s scrambling on behind her, even while she turns the key and kicks the ignition into life. “You don’t have to do this on your own.”

***

_...these men of Tintagel, who died whilst serving their King and Country, in the Great War of 1914 to 1918..._

***

When Arthur wakes, he’s sitting with his back against something cold and hard. Light streams in from a broken window, refracting from the jagged glass edges, sending little rainbows into the bare room. It is cold. His body trembles.

A pair of violet eyes are staring at him, unblinking and vivid, unnerving. Flecks of a pale orange swirl through the irises. They mean something, but he can’t remember what. His head feels muzzy and strange. He tries to remember - something about a dog? There’s a woman with panicked, imploring eyes. She’s important somehow, but he can’t work out why. And there’s another boy, and a sword… it means everything to remember… but it hurts, it hurts so much.

The eyes flash, and there’s a sudden burst of agony around his upper arm. A small part of him screams something, but he blinks and it is gone, together with the painful memories. The freedom from their assault is blissful. He sucks in a breath, closing his eyes, feeling his ribcage expand and contract, filling with air that sends relief and calmness surging through his veins.

“Ah, our prince awakens.” The woman with the violet eyes steps back, blinking, a satisfied smile flitting across her face. “How are you feeling, pet? Ready to meet your father? The father who abandoned you as a baby and killed your mother?”

“Yes.” A surge of hatred floods his chest and he sets his mouth into a determined line. _Now_ he remembers.

“Yes, _what_?” she snaps. Abruptly, her hand snaps across his cheek, making it sting.

“Yes, High Priestess,” he replies, horrified at his own insubordination. He bows his head, awaiting her judgment.

“That’s better,” she purrs, caressing his face, tracing the painful lines where she had slapped him. “Good boy.” Abruptly, she steps back. “Morgause?”

“High Priestess.” There’s a blonde woman standing behind her. Morgause. Her eyes are familiar; ice blue, kohl-lined.

“Are you my friend?” says Arthur, wonderingly.

“Yes, Arthur Pendragon.” She steps forward and places something into his hand. “I am your friend, and this is yours. You know what to do with it.” A sword. It’s cold to his touch but warms under his fingers.

“I do,” he says, straightening to show his determination. He won’t let them down, his friends. “I’m going to find the king, and then I’m going to kill the bastard.”

 

***

***

Portraits line the dark oak panels of King Uther’s office in Buckingham Palace. They portray the fading faces of dignitaries long dead; past monarchs with their splendid regalia, the meaningless trappings of an office obtained first through blood and skullduggery and then passed down from generation to generation without question. Until Uther came along, offering a clean sweep.

A clean sweep now threatened by the evil encroachments of magic wielders, the White Dragon faction, who he holds accountable for his beloved’s death. Well, he will not let them destroy what he has built. Not while he has a drop of blood left in his body.

“Are you sure we should go ahead with this state visit, Your Majesty?” Geoffrey is literally wringing his hands. “According to the police, your daughter’s therapist appears to have kidnapped your son… The witch is not acting alone. Others affiliated with the White Dragons are assisting her, and we have not yet discovered the identity of the one that they call the High Priestess. Who knows what this so-called priestess is capable of? And now… who knows what she is pl—”

“I have seen the reports, Geoffrey,” interrupts Uther before his adviser can deliver yet another rant on a familiar topic. “Mordred assures me that the witch and her co-conspirators cannot penetrate the wards that he has put into place around the palace. This state visit is utterly critical.”

It is reassuring to have such a loyal advisor, but sometimes Geoffrey lets his anxieties obscure the big picture.

“You place too much faith in this new magical security expert.” Geoffrey frowns. “You know my opinions on magic, Sire. ”

“Indeed.” Uther gazes at his own stern face in the mirror as Geoffrey places the circlet upon his forehead. “And as you know, I share them. And yet, if we are to be protected from magic users and foil their plans, then we need a magical means to detect them. It will only be for a short time, I assure you. Once the witch has been apprehended, together with any others who might be part of the same deluded group, I will take steps to make sure that there are no further magic users anywhere near the palace. They will be dealt with.”

Soon, he will capture the witch, remove his children from her influence, and start grooming them to take over from him. After all, he will not live forever, and the succession cannot be entrusted to an outmoded system of democracy that merely elevates the shrillest and most self-serving to power.

“Hmm!” Geoffrey does not sound convinced, although it is hard to tell from his facial expression. “It is not too late to cancel, sire. Mordred cannot...”

“Enough.” Irritated, Uther pushes his chair back and leans forward, preparing to rise. “This visit is important. It strengthens the position of the new council of European monarchs. It must go ahead.”

The vestments are heavy, and he is not as young as he had been the first time he put them on. But he schools his expression to hide his fatigue.

There is a discreet knock at the door.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” says Uther in an undertone, raising his voice to add, “Enter!”

Mordred steps over the threshold and stands, waiting, head bowed. He is as always impeccably dressed, expression grave, deportment perfect, manners well schooled. Nevertheless there is something about him that makes Uther feel uneasy— some vestige of his magic, perhaps. He shivers, despite the thick ermine that weighs down his neck and shoulders.

“You may speak,” says Uther.

“President Hengist of Saxony, his daughter, The Honorable Rowena of Scythia, and their retinue have entered at the palace, sire,” Mordred replies smoothly.

“Thank you Mordred.” Uther checks his watch. The president is punctual, of course. As well he might be, seeking as he is to legitimise his position as leader of such a large and turbulent part of Europe. Standing, the king flicks a hand towards Geoffrey. “My sceptre, Geoffrey.”

“Sire.” Bowing, Geoffrey reverses away from Uther’s chair and thrust the smooth, heavy object into his hand.

Eighteen years. Eighteen long years he has ruled Albion. Eighteen years since the bloodless coup when he deposed the fools and self-serving wretches that had ruined the country under the previous, crumbling system. And in all this time, no other European head of state has made an official visit, citing his contravention of UN election protocols. Neither have they made a move to help him against the incursions into Albion’s fisheries and the agricultural lands in the north from the newly independent Scots. Despite the fortifications that he has laid along the border, skirmishes continue.

Well, now he has an ally against the Scots, and a powerful one at that. The times are changing. With Hengist seizing power in Northern Germany and Jutland, other European leaders are beginning to wrest back control of their borders.

“Let us begin.” Ignoring the distant and strident wail of sirens across the city, Uther pushes his shoulders back and stands tall as he prepares to march down to the palace gardens, where a feast has been set up to greet their visitors.

***

***

 

The gardens of Buckingham Palace glow with a soft light. Individual trees, picked for their shape or height, are illuminated in pastel shades. Above everything linger succulent aromas - a hog roasting here, sizzling steaks there. Marquees bedecked in a profusion of summer flowers are suffused in a warm, golden shade designed to entice welcome guests.

But Arthur has no eyes for such fripperies.

All festivity has stopped, frozen in time, paralyzed by magic. The hundreds of people here, all dressed in the finest of clothes, jewellery glinting in the wan light of the fading sun, are all stationary and silent, save one, who steps away and bows deeply to three approaching figures.

“High Priestess, welcome.”

“Mordred.” The woman nods. “You have done well, I see. How long will the enchantment hold?”

“Long enough.” His smile does not reach his eyes.

Arthur looks neither to the left nor to the right. He strides across the gardens, hand on the hilt of the blade.

As for the silent guests… they are unimportant. Frightened faces, jaws drawn back, dark eyes round and white-lined, stare. Some tense and strain, as if struggling with invisible bonds. He could tell them not to bother. Their struggles will be futile, he knows that. The magic that binds them is too strong. They cannot win.

Beside Arthur, two women march in step with him. The priestesses. His friends. They will help him to destroy his enemy.

“The king will die this day,” intones Morgause to his right. “It is his destiny to be surpassed by his son, who will return magic to the land.”

“It is time, Arthur,” says the High Priestess, who flanks his other side. “Will you accept your challenge and meet your destiny?”

“Yes,” says Arthur, and he feels it with every fibre of his being. The rightness of her words. “I will.”

No-one else speaks. No-one can. A pall hangs over the palace gardens.

One figure stands steadfast, facing him, steady-gazed and stiff-shouldered against his approach. His father. The king. The man who destroyed everything— who abandoned Arthur as a baby, and left him with strangers, uncaring as to his fate. The man he has come to kill.

The king is going red in the face, his jaw tensing as he strains to fight off the magic that holds him in thrall.

Arthur laughs and straightens his shoulders as he lifts the sword. It feels smooth and balanced in his hand, as if he was born to wield it. Yes. This is his moment. This is his destiny. To slay the king, and bring about a new world— one where magical people can live in peace, and non magicals can serve them as is fitting.

 _“Arthur,”_ whispers a jarring voice at the back of his mind. _“Arthur, this is not you. Stand strong, I am coming.”_

Frowning, Arthur stops. The witches falter.

“What’s wrong, sweeting?” says the High Priestess.

“There’s someone…” Arthur rubs his aching forehead. That voice, it reminds him of something. “Someone telling me something. In my head.”

“Ignore them,” instructs Morgause. “Voices in your head? They are your enemies. Come, you have a job to do...”

 _“Look up, Arthur!”_ It doesn’t feel like an enemy. It feels like… _“I am coming! Stand strong! You’re not a cold-blooded killer, Arthur. You’re not, and you never will be… Look at the sky!”_

Puzzled, Arthur glances towards the smog-stained blue dome of the London skyline. The airways over Buckingham Palace are clear of air traffic. But what’s that, far off to the west? A strange speck of black blurs and winks at the edge of his vision. He blinks to clear his eyes. A bird of prey, perhaps? No, it’s too big for that. A drone? One of these objects that has been haunting football matches and race meets of late? No, that’s absurd; portentous deeds are not committed by means of ridiculous objects like that. No, such deeds merit great and terrible tools. Grimly, he tightens his grip on his sword.

“Now, Arthur,” hisses the High Priestess, tugging on his sword arm.

He shrugs her off and resumes his path towards the king. So close now. A few more steps and destiny will be his.

 _“Arthur, no!”_ yells the voice in his head. _“I’m nearly here! Wait for me, you clotpole!”_

Frowning, Arthur looks up again. He blinks. Sure enough, the speck is getting larger. It seems to have wide wings, like a light aircraft, but they flap occasionally as the creature soars, like those of a seabird or a raptor.

 _“She’s not your friend,”_ says the voice, and now it sounds nearer somehow. It sounds like someone from his distant past, a person he’d forgotten that he once loved. _“She has cast a spell on you, Arthur. But you can shake her off. I know you can. Wait for me! I am coming! You are strong, and I am yours.”_

“Merlin!” he whispers. Suddenly his memory washes through him, making him gasp and double over with pain. There’s a searing sensation in his upper left arm that makes him judder. His mind clears like a cloud being lifted. But the heat in his left arm pushes back against the cold tide of memory. “You lost my sword. You’re a liar and a thief.”

 _“I’m sorry,”_ says the voice. _“I was trying to protect you. From her. She’s controlling you. Putting words into your head. Don’t do it, Arthur. This is not you.”_

The king is standing in front of him, a sword length away. With one blow, Arthur could end it. What is holding him back? He’s not sure, other than that it seems cowardly somehow, to strike a man who cannot move. Arthur lowers the point of his sword.

“Kill the king,” commands Morgause, her voice suddenly shrill. Arthur turns his head to stare at her. The bracelet on her arm glows faintly.

“Why would I need protection from her?” he says wonderingly to the voice in his head.

_“Not her. The High Priestess.”_

And finally, Arthur sees it. Because there’s something more behind Morgause’s eyes, something more than mere malice. There’s fear there, and confusion, and deeply hidden but to his suddenly clear sight growing, a sense of vulnerability and abandonment. And now he understands. She’s like him, like Cenred. She’s being controlled— through her own fears and insecurities. But if she’s not the one driving all this, who is?

 _“I knew you could do it, Arthur.”_ The voice is so near now.  _“Hold on, clotpole! I'll be there soon.”_

“Kill him,” says the High Priestess, her voice a faint whisper behind his shoulder.

It’s her. It’s been her all along, making other people do her dirty work. Well, Arthur won’t let her manipulate _him_!

“No.” Arthur drops the sword. “I will not. This sword is meant to protect the innocent, not to slaughter the unarmed.”

Defiant, he turns to face her. Something snaps in the connection between his brain and the bracelet. The High Priestess staggers back. There’s a sudden cacophony of screaming and yelling. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement. With a sudden gesture, the High Priestess casts her hand out across the crowds and all movement stops again, but it is too late. He has seen her vulnerability.

“Who are you?” he asks. “What have I ever done to you?”

“Ask him,” she spits, pointing to the motionless king. She spreads her arms out wide. The crowd is suddenly silenced. The air feels thick. There’s a sick taste to it. “Morgause. End this.”

Using her power on such a crowd is evidently not without cost, as the High Priestess’s arms visibly tremble, as if she is holding up a heavy weight. If only Arthur could just get to her, perhaps he could...

Morgause hisses at him, holding out a hand. Electricity crackles from her fingers like lightning.

He crumples to the floor, agony shooting through his head and scalding his skin. Fire spreads through his veins. His limbs spasm as it courses through his body, stretching into eternity, until there is nothing else, nothing but pain and a wretched sense of loss. It’s too much. He screams, arms and legs flailing, hands clawing at his skin, at his clothes, at his hair...

 _“Hold on, Arthur!”_ the voice is nearer, now. _“Look up, clotpole!”_

Abruptly, the pain stops, and he slumps to the floor, panting. Forcing his eyes open, he takes in the scene unfolding above him, and smiles an incredulous smile. Far above his head, a huge creature circles down, describing great arcs as it sweeps to the ground. A dragon, then. And upon its back, a human figure, distant but unmistakable.

“No!” screams Morgause.

A sudden burst of dazzling light explodes away from from the figure upon the dragon. A wave of pressure pulses against Arthur’s face. When it hits Morgause, it flings her off her feet. She lands a few metres away, her magic fizzling out and dying as she hits the floor.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is barely a croak. He tries again, moistening his lips. There’s so much he wants to say. “Merlin?”

But something is wrong. Merlin slumps forward along the dragon’s back, arms dangling precariously. He doesn’t answer. The dragon’s wings sweep up as it prepares to land upon the grass. Yes, something is definitely wrong. Terribly wrong. One of Merlin’s arms slips from the dragon’s back. As if in slow motion, Merlin’s body falls, limp and lifeless.

“No!” With a surge of adrenaline that shakes off the last vestiges of the magic that binds him, Arthur sprints towards the hulk of the beast’s body. The air near it is hot. But he’s too late. Merlin’s body’s descent is slowing, as if stopped by an invisible hand, but when it alights on to the ground he lies there in a crumpled heap.

“What’s wrong with him?” Arthur desperately tries to remember his first aid training. Kneeling on the damp grass beside Merlin’s unresponsive body, he listens for breathing and checks for a pulse, for obvious injuries, although after a fall like that, who knows what internal damage he might have suffered?

“Merlin!” he calls, hand cupping Merlin’s cheek. “Merlin, wake up!” But Merlin just stays there, all floppy-limbed, eyelids trembling but closed.

Morgause has struggled to her feet and stands, swaying, a few feet away, her eyes glittering a terrifying orange. A sudden spray of magic glances past him, the taint of it making the air taste greasy.

The beast, the dragon, roars, rearing up onto its hind limbs, wings splayed wide in a protective arc around Merlin.

“You cannot harm _me_ , witch.” The voice is new, deep and gravelly. With a shock, Arthur realises that it is the dragon speaking. “No puny human can break my shield.” As the beast speaks, a shimmering haze rises to surround it, between them and Morgause.

“We’ll see about that, worm!” Seemingly unphased by the dragon, her eyes glittering with malintent, Morgause redoubles her assault.

Magic flashes above their heads, but none of it penetrates their bubble of calm.

“Stop!” cries another voice. “Sister! This is not the way!”

There’s a brief crackle and the magic fizzles out. Morgause whirls around to face the new voice. With surprise, Arthur recognises Crown Princess Morgana. Beside her, a man with longish strawberry blond hair and beard pushes the still silent crowds out of the way. The princess stalks towards Morgause, eyes flashing golden, hands outstretched.

A surge of magic hits Morgause, who staggers back, hissing in pain. “Sister!” she cries as she raises her hands.

But Morgana jumps onto her, beating her to the floor with her fists. “Some sister you turned out to be,” she gasps. “Framing me for murder.”

While Morgause is distracted, Arthur looks up at the dragon. “Will he be okay?” He whispers, not trusting his voice, one hand upon Merlin’s chest, feeling its minute rise and fall.

“He is gravely weakened but not injured,” replies the dragon. “We have flown far. Stopping the witch from hurting you drained the last vestiges of his dwindling energy. I can heal him if you can protect us both. But then I must go. Even now your modern flying machines are closing in on me. I can disguise myself but I cannot remain.”

“But how?” Arthur can’t raise a magical shield. “How can I protect him?”

The dragon chuckles. “You pulled the weapon of the Once and Future King from the skystone, young Pendragon. It is your destiny to protect each other so that together you can unite Albion once more. Too long has your father divided kin from kin, magical from non-magical. Will you do it?”

“But I am not magic.”

The dragon dips its head. “Your sword was forged in a dragon’s breath, long ago,” he says. “In the hands of the Once and Future King, it can be wielded to protect and renew.”

Whatever that means.

“My shield fades,” says the dragon. “I must fly. Already your mechanical dragons are converging on me, and when they arrive, my life is forfeit.”

“Heal him,” says Arthur, grimly. Bullets drum against the shield. Jagged sparks are winking along the edge of a scorch mark upon the fading shield. Their time runs short. “Then you may go.”

“You do not command me, young Pendragon.” The dragon says. “Alas, it will cost me dearly. I must feed, afterwards. But I will heal the warlock. You have my word. Are you ready?”

“I am ready,” says Arthur, mouth set firm.

Suddenly, the air around the shield shivers, sending out radiating sparks of livid pink-white-blue. Abruptly, the glow winks out. Arthur stands in the path of a stream of bullets attack, sword raised and angled towards them. The sword shines, an odd bluish white colour.

“A few moments more, young Pendragon.”

There is sudden a furnace-like heat at his back. He wills himself not to turn towards it, trusting the dragon to keep his word.

Another crackle signals that more gunfire is coming their way. In a fluid movement born of instinct and some inner compulsion, he swipes with the ancient sword. It should be impossible. He should not be able to hold the weapon against such momentum. But somehow he deflects the bullets so that they glance off harmlessly, and sends them pinging out into the night.

He pauses to take a breath, looking around for the next threat. At last, the enchantment holding the guests has failed. Around him, a battle rages. The King and President Hengist are locked in a wrestling hold. Princess Morgana and Morgause shriek and hurl deadly missiles at each other— missiles that glance off pale skin and leave faint marks. Their clothing is scorched, hair spinning out in thick, tousled strands. But still they fight.

But there is one figure who is set apart from the chaos, face calm and mouth set in a spiteful line. The High Priestess. And she is staring straight at Arthur.

She steps towards him, grim faced.

So this is to be his foe.

“Stand aside, boy!” she says. “The warlock is mine.” The armlet encircling his bicep sends out a surge of magic that makes him hiss out in pain.

But he stands firm. He may not be able to fight her, but he can buy Merlin the time that he needs.

“Never,” he says.

It is a brave word, though. Because her onslaught, when it comes, is fierce and cruel. Fire courses through his body from the cursed armlet. Jagged lightning-strokes spring from her fingers. Each vivid bolt of it makes his body judder under its weight. He parries the magic with his blade. He is strong and fast. But still she stands. In a desperate attempt to bring her down, he steps forward. With a grunt of effort, he sweeps at her legs. But she takes an unnaturally fast sidestep. She neatly avoids his sword, blinking out and reappearing a metre to his left.

“Surrender, fool.” She sends a dart of power to his side. “Or you will die.”

The agony that sweeps through him where her power hits his belly is like nothing that he’s ever felt. Crying out, he crumples to his knees. With a triumphant yell, she directs her palms at him, incanting as she splays her fingers.

“Never,” he repeats, in a pained whisper, sword still held aloft as he braces himself for the blow.

But suddenly a terrible fireball hits her full on the chest, making her stagger back, so that the energy that charges from her hands goes wide of its mark, surging harmlessly into the air.

“Leave him alone!” yells someone in a voice both great and terrible, filled with rage and authority. A deafening crack of thunder echoes his word, as if summoned.

“Merlin!” whispers Arthur. He blinks across at his rescuer. The dragon has vanished. “Merlin? Is that you?” A surge of relief floods through his chest, as intoxicating as any wine.

“Arthur!” Sure enough, Merlin steps past, momentarily resting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He’s looking tired and thin, too thin. But his eyes glow like the sun and his voice echoes with all the power of a building storm as he bites out, “If you harm him, you will suffer, Nimueh.”

Arthur drops his sword arm and slumps down onto his heels. The sword falls from his fingers. Sweat stings his eyes. Panting with exertion, he wipes them with the back of one trembling hand.

“You!” shrieks the High Priestess, raising one trembling, livid hand towards Merlin.

“It’s over, Nimueh, now leave him alone!”

Not knowing any other way to show his support, Arthur reaches up to cover Merlin’s hand with his own. Merlin’s hand stills, and their fingers lace for a moment, threaded together like the weave of a fabric, communicating their thoughts silently. Sorry, their fingers say. And thank you. And don’t leave me. And, you are mine.

“I knew you would betray your kind, like your mother and your father before you,” she sneers. The grip of Merlin’s hand on Arthur’s fingers tightens for a second before he lets go to step in between Nimueh and Arthur.

Head spinning, Arthur desperately tries to centre himself. He looks around for inspiration. Security cameras and torches sweep the grass and trees and all around there is a commotion of sirens. The sword is lying on the grass. It’s still glowing.

A sudden vicious twist to Nimueh’s mouth is the only thing that gives her intent away, as she starts to incant. Arthur tries to call out a warning, but Merlin has heard it, too. Merlin staggers to one side, knees buckling as he crumples under the onslaught. Magical blows rain down upon him. But they glance off something. The air shivers and wobbles. Another shield, then, but it looks small and weak compared to the one the dragon raised. It won’t last long. Its shimmering rainbow colours are already fading to a sicker pink with every new, deadly blow that she directs at him. Merlin needs help, and fast.

Arthur gropes to find the hilt of his sword, which he tugs until he holds it in a trembling grip, willing himself to hold steady. For Merlin’s sake. His hands are wet with sweat, but the pommel slides into his grip as if it belongs there. Using the sword as a prop, he forces himself up onto his feet.

Within a few more seconds, the last light on the shield flickers and dies. Merlin is lying down motionless, unprotected.

“And now, warlock, you die.” Nimueh stands over Merlin, panting and dishevelled but triumphant. The air stinks of cordite and sulphur. She raises her hands and starts to incant. Far above her head, there is a flash of lightning and the drone of a helicopter.

“No!” With a bellowing cry that comes straight from his belly, Arthur charges her down. He can’t bring himself to stab her, but nonetheless his blade glows a fierce, triumphant shade of blue as he slugs her over the head with the hilt.

She falls inelegantly, staggering backwards, her lips parted in surprise. Then her eyes flicker closed, and she slumps down onto the bare grass.

“Merlin?” Arthur drops his sword with a shaking hand. All around him the circling helicopters and armoured guards are approaching. But Arthur has eyes only for Merlin, who lies curled in a fetal position on the floor. He runs over, shaking Merlin’s shoulder. “Merlin, are you okay? Wake up, Merlin!” A terrible fear assaults him, slicing through his gut like a knife.

To his enormous relief, Merlin slowly unfurls and blinks up at him, eyes black and round. “Arthur?” He lets out a shaky breath as he props himself up on one elbow. There’s a nasty gash on his forehead and it oozes blood, but his eyes glitter and focus, and his mouth kinks up at the edges in the ghost of a smile.

“You’re all right.” Relief and adrenaline mix like a drug, filling Arthur with exhilaration. He actually laughs out loud. “Thank God!”

“All right is a bit strong,” says Merlin shakily, “but I’m going to be, I think. As long as you are.”

“You came for me.” Gratefully, Arthur sinks to his knees and enfolds Merlin’s shaking torso in his arms.

He’s warm and thin against Arthur’s chest. The soft curls of his hair tickle Arthur’s nostrils, and there’s a vaguely reptilian stench in the air, but Arthur doesn’t care. Partly because the vision of Merlin sweeping in on dragonback to save him, like some sort of avenging angel, will remain forever engraved on his heart. Partly because of the moment when Merlin lifted his voice, so authoritative and commanding as he dared to speak out loud to protect Arthur against the High Priestess. It was the first time that Arthur had ever heard Merlin speak when anyone but he or Gaius were present, and he is not sure whether that the of awe that it inspired will ever be equalled in this or any other life. But most of all, because he has missed this, craved the feeling of Merlin’s warmth beneath his fingertips, and he never wants to let go.

“Of course I did, clotpole,” whispers Merlin into Arthur’s neck. “I meant what I said. I’m yours.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” Arthur confesses before his brain has a chance to filter out what his heart wants to say. He lets out a breath that’s more of a sob than an exhale.

“Me too.” Merlin is still whispering as his grip tightens upon the thin fabric of Arthur’s shirt. “Stupid, brave prat.”

“Impetuous idiot.” Arthur wrinkles his nose. “You smell like a dragon, and not in a good way.”

“And you stink of clotpole,” retorts Merlin, releasing his hold for a second to stare round-eyed and indignant into Arthur’s face.

“What does that even mean?” says Arthur.

They grin at each other like maniacs.

And that’s when the outside world comes crashing into their space. A battle rages around them. But something weird is happening. The people wearing armlets identical to the one that is still on his arm - those who he supposes are part of the White Dragon faction - have stopped fighting. Some of them are looking around, dazed, while others slump to the floor. And the armlet upon his bicep, which had previously been tight and hot, painfully so upon his skin, is loose.

“The armlets don’t work any more,” Arthur says wonderingly. “Now that she is no longer directing them.” The realization dawns and it’s like waking up. “The armlets!” he gasps. “Make them take them off!” He tugs the damned thing off his own arm and brandishes it. “Take them off!” he yells at the crowds. “She’s using them to control you! You are free of her if you take them off!”

To his shock, the first person to obey him is Morgause.

Princess Morgana is lying, blinking up at the sky. Morgause bends at the waist and pulls her up into a warm embrace.

“I never meant to hurt you, sister,” she says. Tears stream down her face. “And now, I have done terrible things. Eira… and Cenred…”

“Hush, sister.” Morgana strokes the woman’s messy blonde hair. “It wasn't you. It was her. And it’s over now. It will be all right, I promise.”

 

***

***

When Kay wakes up, he blinks at a pair of concerned brown eyes. There’s a throbbing pain behind his temples, and his arm feels like someone has squeezed it in a burning vice.

“Hello, love,” says the warm voice that goes with the eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Um.” Kay gulps up at her.

He’s been kidnapped, tortured, burned, shouted at, his brother has… disappeared, and all around them people are shouting and screaming. He’s shaken off the control of a magical priestess, while his little brother has turned out to be… not his little brother after all, but a prince of the realm. He’s met and offered his heart to his celebrity crush, who has also disappeared. It’s been quite a day. And there’s this quite frankly gorgeous woman cuddling him and smiling at him sympathetically. So, naturally, he can’t say a word.

“Um,” he manages to say at last. “I, um. I missed my Further Maths exam, so…”

He bites his lip. God, way to tell her that she’s out of his league and age bracket. And anyway, it’s not like he’s going to have any success with a woman like this at the best of times, let alone when he’s all pathetic and clingy like this. His legs are feeling really shaky, and there’s a horrible dryness to his throat that makes it hard to swallow, as if he’s about to cry.

He had been on course for an A* in Further Maths.

Oh, God, he is going to cry. Why that should be the thing that really hurts he isn’t sure, but his eyes start to fill with tears.

“Are my mum and dad okay, miss?” he chokes.

“Come on, now.” She manoeuvres him into a sitting position with strong hands. “My name’s Gwen. Gwen Thomas. I'm a conservator here at the museums. Well, actually I'm a metallurgist with a side line in being a conservator...and tell me off if I talk too much, haha. My brother's always telling me to shut up. He's a jeweller, my brother. Metals are the family trade, you see..." 

"I like you talking, miss," he says. He blinks at her. It's true. He likes her voice, it's got a London vibe to it without being too posh. 

"Well... I... I mean to say. Ahem. Look, my dad is a scrap metal merchant, haha. But you don't want my life history, do you! Anyway, look." She paused for a moment as she took in a breath. "Look, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know how your parents are. What I do know is how incredibly brave you’ve been. We’re going to look after you, and we’re going to find out where everyone is, and we’re going to get you back home. I promise. You’re called Kay?”

“That’s right,” he whispers, voice wobbling and crackling as if he’s fourteen years old again. His head hurts, and his arm is killing him. “Kay Wildforest. Where’s Arthur?”

“Your brother?” She looks grave. “I’m really sorry, but they took him.”

“I need to protect him.” He tries to get up, but his legs won’t hold him, and he stumbles to the floor.

“Whoa, there, soldier! You’re in no fit state to protect anyone, although I admire your determination!” Gwen props him up, one arm around his waist. “Look. Some of the most powerful people I know are already on their way to help him. I’m afraid we just have to wait and see.”

“But my mum…” Kay searches her face for clues. “My whole family… you have to understand!” His face crumples, and he buries his face in her shoulder. She’s wearing a soft cashmere jumper that smells sweet and clean. He sobs into it, body shaking.

“Shhh,” she says, soothingly, her voice deepening with some emotion that he can’t identify. “You’ve done everything you can, sweetheart. Whatever happens, I’ll look after you, I promise.”

There’s a hand stroking his hair, but the floor is cold beneath his bum and his heart is filled with terror. He clings onto her as if she’s an anchor. Because she hasn’t tried to sugar coat anything, he instinctively trusts her to tell him the truth.

“Thank you,” he manages to say through the tears and worry. “For being honest.”

“You poor, sweet boy.” She pats his back, vaguely. “Anything for a fellow scientist. Here. Have a hanky.”

There’s silence for a moment or two while people mill about around them.

“Gwen?” he says after a while, when his equilibrium is restored.

“Hmmm?”

He half-smiles. “I think I’ve got snot on your jumper.”

“It’s okay,” she says, without missing a beat. “It’s an old jumper and I never really liked it. Now. Tell me more about your A levels. I did Further Maths, too. It’s always nice to meet a fellow nerd...”

A few minutes later, he finds himself droning on about game theory and matrices. She appears to be listening intently, although he is pretty sure she’s just trying to distract him.

She may be out of his league, but he thinks Gwen is probably the kindest person that he’s ever met.

 

***

***

King Uther Pendragon drums his fingers on his desk, frowning at the two young men standing in front of him. One has dark hair and unfortunate ears while the other is tow-headed and snaggle-toothed, with a firm jawline. They’re both dressed in suits, but it’s clear from his excessive fidgeting that at least one of them is not used to such finery. Uther turns to him first.

“Step forward, Mr Wyllt.”

With a visible gulp, the dark-haired one steps forward, bending at the waist in an awkward bow.

“There’s no need to bow, boy.” With an inward sigh, Uther makes an impatient gesture with his hand to signal that Merlin should stand up straight.

He knows that Geoffrey gave both of them the lecture on the correct formalities, but he also knows that nerves can make all those instructions go out of the window. As well they might. The boy has magic, Geoffrey says. Wild and untamed, elemental. Natural magic. Completely different from the power that the so-called White Dragon faction trammel through their corrupted trinkets, but magic, nonetheless. And here he is at the heart of the palace, the centre of Uther’s anti-magical empire.

He has courage, Uther will give him that.

The boy straightens and swallows again, but does not speak.

“And there is no need to worry. You saved my son from that... that _woman_.” says Uther. An involuntary shudder makes his shoulders rise. “You are safe here.”

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, the boy tilts his head so that his gaze lifts to rest upon the anti-magic poster that still stands above Uther’s desk. He has remarkably expressive eyes. It is amazing how much they can convey in one glance.

“The witch called you a warlock.” Uther peered down at the notes on his table. “You seem to represent some ideal that the so-called Druids and the extremists from the White Dragon faction revere. Taliesin Thomas calls you Emrys.”

Merlin’s face twists into an eloquent grimace.

“Your Majesty—” says the other boy. His son, Arthur. His square-shouldered, wide-legged stance, in marked contrast to his companion’s, shows no nervousness, only impatience.

“You may speak only when asked,” says Uther sharply, and Arthur has the effrontery to actually scowl at being reprimanded.

Ah, yes. He reminds Uther of himself, at that age: sure of himself and at ease with his place in the world.

“I would like to remind you both that you stand accused of grave crimes.” Uther peers at them from above steepled fingers. “Merlin Wyllt, a proscribed organisation has bestowed some sort of title upon you—”

“He didn’t ask for it,” interjects Arthur.

Lips pursed, Merlin nods in agreement.

“You will remain silent,” says Uther coolly. “Silent until spoken to, and you will address me as sir.”

With a mutinous scowl, Arthur manages to stutter “sir,” before lapsing into a resentful silence.

“As I said, I must stand judgment. For membership of a proscribed organisation, and for the crime of magic, performed within the palace gardens.”

“But, sir—” objects Arthur, his face pinking as he again leaps to the defense of his friend.

“You will not speak!” roars Uther, thumping the table so hard that both boys jump. “Merlin Wyllt, as I was saying, for the crime of magic, and most of all for unleashing an illegal, dangerous magical creature that still has not been found—”

“Kilgharrah is not—” interrupts Arthur.

“Silence!” Uther yells, banging the table again.

It’s only when Arthur’s face turns a peculiar shade of purple, and he starts to chew his lips as if they’re made of sugar, that Uther realises he’s enjoying himself more than he has for years.

“And Arthur, in front of witnesses you committed assault on a woman—”

“She was going to kill Merlin!” blurted Arthur. “She would have killed us all, if Merlin hadn’t—”

“Silence!” bellows Uther again. “Or I will have you both arrested as you no doubt deserve.”

They shuffle their feet then, uncomfortably, exchanging brief mutinous glances, as if they are two schoolchildren chastised for being late for their lunch break, rather than Britain’s most wanted— and celebrated— felons.

“I have brought you here because, despite or perhaps because of your crimes, you have been crowned heroes and darlings of the popular press. You give me quite the problem. I can’t be seen to be lenient on magic users. That would merely encourage the factions that seek to unseat me. And yet, I need a successor. It is tempting to select one whose bravery and quick thinking in felling the witch, Nimueh, saved Britain from a terrible fate: kinglessness and potentially war.”

And with that, they’re both silent at last, staring wide-eyed at him. They probably think that he doesn’t notice the way that the backs of their hands whisper together as if to indicate comfort and solidarity for one another. A sharp pang of regret knifes through his gut. He misses that sort of rapport. He had it with Arthur’s mother, that sort of unthinking knowledge that there is someone forever at your back through all manner of hardship. Yes, he had it with Ygraine, years ago, but never since.

“You have a look of your mother about you, Arthur,” he says softly, changing tack. “Gaius and Hector did well to save you.”

“My mother?” Arthur looks confused for a moment. “Oh! You mean the Queen.”

“Yes. The Queen. My wife.” Uther shakes his head. “She had the same defiant angle to her jaw. The same golden hair. Those eyes of hers that could see into my soul… I miss her, you know. I miss her every day. All this… all this… it was Nimueh’s revenge on me, for losing her.” Uther waves his hand in the vague direction of the gardens, where he and Hengist had fought and narrowly missed starting a war.

“Nimueh? The one who called herself the High Priestess?” says Arthur.

“She is a witch and a murderer. She sought to use those who had the power and the Sight,” Uther goes on. Merlin still does not speak, but his eyes widen. Ah, yes. The boy knows what Uther speaks of. “Against me. In vengeance for Ygraine’s death. She blamed me for that.”

“But my m— the Queen died in childbirth,” says Arthur. A puzzled frown appears between his eyes. “How could that be your fault?”

“Oh, it’s not rational, malice.” Uther can admit as much to himself. “The witch was jealous. Obsessed. Ygraine was… a complicated person. Full of love and joy. She loved so freely, so generously...”

He pauses, and takes a moment to gaze at the photograph of Ygraine that she keeps on his desk. With one finger, he strokes the golden frame around the photograph, as if seeking permission to continue. For this is not a story widely told. Few know of Ygraine’s bisexuality, and fewer still that Ygraine had been in a relationship with Nimueh before Uther won her over. But Arthur is her son. This information about her might help to forge the bond that Uther needs. Besides which... maybe the boy deserves to know.

“...gender was not a barrier to Ygraine’s affections,” Uther goes on. “And Nimueh… she was Ygraine’s first love.”

Ygraine stares back out at him, laughter crinkling her glorious unblinking eyes, as if bestowing her approval.

“She tried to drive Ygraine from me, you know. Nimueh. She wanted Ygraine back. Tried to win her back. And then when Ygraine fell pregnant, well, I was ecstatic, of course, and so was your mother. But Nimueh… well, you can imagine.”

“I didn’t know that,” says Arthur.

“Few people do.” Uther watches Arthur’s reaction carefully. Is that a hint of curiosity that he sees around the boy’s mouth? Encouraged, he presses on. “But Ygraine… she loved Nimueh once. Years before she met me. But afterwards… afterwards, she was always loyal to me, and I to her...” Uther’s voice trails off as he remembers. “She had such a beautiful smile. You have it. Her smile, I mean.” He shakes his head. “I’m so happy to see it. I should legitimise you, you know... Make you my heir. The people would accept you.”

“No.” Arthur’s reply is sudden and firm. He looks Uther squarely in the eye. “I am sorry for your loss, but I have been thinking about everything, and I do not want this. I do not want to be another… another person. I am Arthur Wildforest. I am not a Pendragon, not now. I would rather go to jail than become something that I am not. My parents are Hector and Finna. My brother is Kay. They raised me, and they made me who I am.”

He is stubborn, then. Like his mother. And his father. Well, Uther can play the long game if need be. He will win in the end. He always does. But now is not the time to press.

“Arthur,” says Uther, leaning back in his chair. “I think you’ll find that you made yourself the man that you are.”

They lock eyes for a moment. Arthur’s eyes are blue and unwavering. When Uther looks away first, he sees that Arthur’s hand is now firmly clasped in Merlin’s.

“You will always be my son.” Uther sighs. “And for what it’s worth, I could not be more proud.” He presses a button on the intercom upon his desk. “Geoffrey?”

“Your Majesty?” says a tinny voice on the other end of the line.

“Pardon them both,” says King Uther, passing a hand across his eyes for a moment. “And escort them back to wherever they want to be.”

Uther strokes his chin as the door opens and a pair of guards appears to lead the two boys away. He has leverage over Arthur, obviously. The boy is sentimental over his adopted family, and over that odd, silent boyfriend of his...

It's as his thoughts turn to Merlin that he suddenly finds his eyes drawn naturally to the warlock, and they lock gazes unexpectedly. Arthur has turned his back to leave the room, but Merlin is staring defiantly at Uther with bright violet eyes that glow suddenly gold. Uther's focus narrows and the boy _grows_ somehow, filling his field of view and eclipsing the rest of the room. A shadow passes over the window and there is a sudden ominous thunderclap. Uther shivers, a ghostly sensation making his skin crawl. He knows what it is. Magic. And Uther has made enough threats in his life to recognise this one for the clear sign that it is.

Back off. Arthur is _protected_. 

Unnerved, Uther leans back on his chair and nods. 

Very well. He understands. He will hold back.

For now. 

 

***

***

A bank of cloud breaks, scattering pale scraps of white across the over-arching blue and sending sunlight flooding the land. Cow-parsley and foxgloves tilt their heads to the light, pink and white dapples stark against the mottled green of the hedgerows. Two boys - nearly men, really - lie back upon a cool, neatly mowed riverbank, blinking at the sun. Far above their heads a skylark trills in counterpoint to the persistent low hum of bees and the scritch-scritch of the crickets, hidden in the long grass.

How do you say sorry for something that happened before the world was turned on its side, and shook out all its secrets? Arthur wants to take all the painful words that escaped him in that bitter, horrible row, all the vile, vile things he said. He wants to turn back the clock and take Merlin with him when he goes to retrieve his sword. Most of all, he wants Toby back. Poor Toby. The sight of his broken little body will haunt Arthur forever. How do you talk about such enormous things? Words are too small for that, somehow. Is that what happened to Merlin? Is that how he ended up being unable to speak to people? Even now, Arthur has only ever heard Merlin speak to him, or to Gaius, except once.

Once, when, Arthur was in danger.

But perhaps they don’t need to talk of such things, not yet. It’s only been a week since that fateful meeting at the palace. Life has returned to a weird sort of equilibrium, albeit one in which Kay won’t shut up about missing his bloody Further Maths exam and how he wants to study metallurgy, now, not PPE, and how nice some museum curator is. Not that Arthur can’t appreciate how nice museum curators can be.

Speaking of which... what with all the excitement, this is the first time that Arthur has had a chance to talk to Merlin, properly at least. But now that it comes to it, he’s tongue tied. So he’s just lying there in awkward silence, chewing on a leaf, head churning with all the thinky thoughts that won’t leave him alone. He watches the skylarks as they flit and dart, and imagines sketching the scene. The clouds part and morph into a shape a little like a dragon, and then gradually dissolve into pale wisps.

“She killed my mum,” says Merlin, eventually. “Nimueh, I mean.”

“The High Priestess?” Having gathered that something like that must have happened, Arthur bites his lip. He has promised never to ask what happened to Merlin’s mother, so he won’t press, but keeps silent to allow Merlin all the space that he needs.

“Yeah.” Merlin lets out a breath. “Not directly. She used people with those bracelets. Made them do things. And she made Morgause and Cenred…” He swallows, throat working.

“You knew her name,” says Arthur. “How did you know who she was?”

“She posed as some sort of magical psychotherapist. The educational psychologist at school referred me to her, after mum…” his voice tailed off and his eyes glittered as he turned towards the sun. "I think she had everyone under a spell, somehow." 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Thanks.” A ghost of a smile tilts up the corners of Merlin’s mouth. “I’m not sure I can, not yet. But I’m getting closer.”

“They came close to it with my parents, too.” A sudden burst of anger makes Arthur’s heart pound in his ears. “My real parents, I mean, not my biological ones. And they killed my dog. Poor Toby. I hope she stays in prison for a long time. I hope she _rots_ there.”

“I’m glad you hit her.” Merlin’s mouth narrows and his eyes glitter.

“Me too.”

They’re silent for a moment, although their hands seek each other out. Their fingers link together, entwined like weakly wound strands of wool to make a strong, flexible fabric that brings warmth and protection. Arthur’s eyes are misting; far overhead is a speck wheeling against the blue-and-white backdrop, and he wills himself to focus on that, on the hope that the whirling skylark represents.

“How’s your Dad?” says Merlin, at last.

“Oh, he’s fine, thanks.” Grateful for the distraction, Arthur chuckles and sends his free hand dashing across his eyes as he considers Mum’s anxious fussing and Hector’s gruff rebuttals. “Says he still gets headaches, but not to tell mum, because she keeps clucking over him like an old hen, and he hates that.”

“My uncle’s like that,” says Merlin, nodding. “I reckon he doesn’t like to admit weakness.”

“Makes sense,” says Arthur, who doesn’t like admitting weakness either.

"Anyway, he's the one who's been hiding things from me," says Merlin. "Things like being the queen's physician, years ago. He said when you told him your name was Wildforest, he nearly had a heart attack. Silly old goat. It's his fault for staying so close to Hector. Not that I'm not grateful. If he'd lived further away, I might never have met you..." Merlin's voice trails off before he adds, more firmly. "I could never regret meeting you."

Arthur turns his head and Merlin’s looking at him, just looking. His eyes have a too-bright sheen to them. And still Arthur doesn’t know what to say. They spend a long time just looking at each other. Too long and also somehow not long enough. Arthur hopes that maybe his eyes are saying everything for him, because the weight of words is too much for his mouth.

“I, um,” says Merlin at last, looking up at the sky. “When we argued, I… I was scared I might lose you. That I’d already lost you. I didn’t…” His breath hitches. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” He turns back to Arthur, eyes shining, now brim full of tears.

So they are going to talk about the row. Arthur’s lips part. Isn’t it weird? Merlin’s meant to be the one who finds talking difficult. But Arthur’s got a great lump in his throat, and the words get stuck there as if dammed.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to say, at last. “I… I hurt you. And I regret that, more than anything.” Now that he’s finally said it, things seem so much easier. His lips twitch up into a shaky sort of half-smile. Was that it? All that terror over a few measly yet important words. He tries them on again, for size. “I truly am sorry, Merlin. The sword seemed to matter so much… I’d always wanted something special like that, and it seemed to mean so much, about you… and me… so when you left it there… I felt so....” Arthur swallows. “Anyway, I yelled at you, and regretted it straight away, but then… then things happened, and... They took my brother! And they… and my dog… I… Will you forgive—”

“Oh, Arthur, you absolute clotpole,” chokes Merlin. “You complete prat! There’s nothing to forgive.”

With that their lips are upon each other, and everything is suddenly all right.

After a while - quite a long while, because the day is calm and the landscape empty, and they are horny, and young, and have missed each other - they lie down again, hearts slowing, hands entwined (albeit a bit sticky) and breath in the clean scent of the mowed grass.

“So,” says Arthur. “Will you be detectoring again any time soon?” Truth be told, Arthur would not mind going out and looking for gold coins or something. Who knows what else has hidden for centuries, waiting for them to come along?

“Nah.” Merlin has a blade of grass in his mouth, which he twirls. “I’ve got all the treasure I need right here.”

Arthur grins, and his heart expands until he thinks it might burst out of his chest. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

***

_…a sudden movement; there, plain as you like, head breaking the surface of the water, is an otter…_

***

*END*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will you search through the lonely earth for me?  
> By Johnny Flynn  
> see https://youtu.be/Q58Gm18-IMY
>
>>   
>  _Will you search through the lonely earth for me?_   
>  _Climb through the briar and bramble._   
>  _I'll be your treasure._   
>  _I felt the touch of the kings and the breath of the wind,_   
>  _I knew the call of all the song birds._   
>  _They sang all the wrong words._   
>  _I'm waiting for you,_   
>  _I'm waiting for you._   
>  _(Mmmmmm)_   
>  _Will you swim through the briny sea for me?_   
>  _Roll along the ocean's floor._   
>  _I'll be your treasure._   
>  _I'm with the ghosts of the men who can never sing again,_   
>  _There's a place follow me._   
>  _Where a love lost at sea._   
>  _Is waiting for you._   
>  _Is waiting for you._   
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, I'm not getting paid

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART for: Will you search through the lonely earth for me?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15826872) by [Merlocked18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/pseuds/Merlocked18)




End file.
